


dona nobis pacem.

by swaginski



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcoholism, F/F, F/M, HISTORICAL LESBIANISM, Historical Hetalia, Human AU, Nurse AU, Nyotalia, Sadness??, arthur is kind of a fuckboy in this, i wanna make a vine reference in this but sadly it's 1918 nevermind, marianne being a mom, sorry mom, there are some OC's in here, wwi, wwi hetalia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaginski/pseuds/swaginski
Summary: with war raging on the western front, marianne will do anything for her country."give us peace.”





	1. promise.

**Author's Note:**

> LMAOO I LOWKEY WROTE THIS FOR A HISTORY PROJECT BUT I REALLY REALLY LIKE IT SO IM GONNA ELABORATE ON IT
> 
>  
> 
> aesthetic board:  
> https://www.pinterest.com/schwarzieee/dona-nobis-pacem-aesthetic/

Winter felt especially colder these years.

 

It hadn’t even been a year since the war began but she felt as if it had drawn out for centuries, changing her life drastically in a matter of almost nine months. She tried to remember what Paris felt like before the war. The former white-walled streets had a more greyish tint than they used to. There was a dense chill in the air wherever you walked. The City of Love had become quite dull, in her eyes, romance had been practically sucked dry. Husbands had been ripped away from their homes, their children, their wives-- greeted by death. There is nothing more bleak than death. 

 

It was August 4th.

 

Marianne had been pacing back in forth from her kitchen to the living room to the point where her footsteps could have made imprints into the hardwood floor. Madeline only having been five wasn’t old enough to understand as to why the Parisian was panicking, but give it a couple years. She hoped she’d see it. Once Germany declared war on Russia, Marianne started to worry. Paris had already been calling for volunteers, even if the Germans had demanded them not to mobilize. Which, of course, she found ironic. There were scraps of newspapers wherever you stepped, posters with headlines printed in bold letters like a grim reminder, _Germany Declares War Upon France; British Fleet Pledged To Protect French Coast._

 

She remembered sitting on her balcony after watering her roses, trying to disassociate from all her anxiety. She envied her flowers, how they stood fixated in the ground, not having to worry about the people you love being drafted or losing your child to a war they were never meant to live through. A cigarette hung from her lips, smoke wafting from her mouth and disappearing into the air. She had put Madeline to sleep already, her cerulean eyes observing her city as if that was the last time she’d see it that way. In a way, she was right. If there was a way she could capture the certain feel that her native town evoked before the war and put it in a jar, she’d gladly do so.

 

The first couple days of the war came the quickest. It was only days later that Britain declared war on Germany, the United States with it’s neutrality, which she knew wouldn’t last for long. The British Expeditionary Force was quick to arrive. As much as her inner French nationalist hated those Brits, god were they helpful. There were lots of bustling streets, frantic women, and waving soldiers. It all sort of melted together in her brain, like a sickening headache. When she was in public, she held onto Madeline much tighter than before.

 

There was a shrill tension in the air from that day forth. Ever since Bismarck had proclaimed France to be the biggest threat to their European domination, the heap of the countries had all been on their toes. It wasn’t no surprise that after the assassination of the Austrian-Hungarian archduke everything fell apart. As someone who studied history, it baffled her to see such a widespread war, considering it had never been seen before. A tangle of alliances had webbed out a series of conflicts that no one really saw coming. At first, Marianne wasn’t expecting it for it to draw out for too long. That the German animosity would fizzle out and there’d be an armistice within a couple months. 

Nothing really significant that she could remember happened only until a month later, when Marianne heard the faint sound of marching in the distance.

 

“Madeline, come here!” She had frantically grabbed her hand, pulling her into the tiny kitchen of her one bedroom cot. Marianne had expected some sort of German retaliation, but this soon? And so close to Paris?

 

Her eyes darted towards the calendar.  


 

It was September 5th, 1914.

 

“Maman, what’s wrong?” The girl had wondered, her doe eyes expressing concern underneath her long eyelashes.

 

It was that day that the Germans had marched through to the Marne river which ran through the city of Paris, assembling on the outskirts of the Northeast. The Parisian, in her panic, had no idea how to handle the situation. How was she supposed to protect her daughter? Her first idea was to crawl under the kitchen table, her daughter in tow. It was almost as if it were a maternal instinct.

 

You could hear the rustling of a crowd from the streets, yelling and chaos-- a whirlwind of emotions taking her by storm. Even if the action was much farther away than her home was, you could still hear it from miles away. General Joseph Joffre, commander in chief of the French army had rallied his troops for an offensive against the advancing Germans, such commotion couldn’t go unnoticed.

 

The Parisian soothingly pulled her daughter into her arms, cradling her like a newborn even if she was too big for that now. “Shh, shh.” She cooed, running through her curls she had inherited from her mother with her palm.

 

“What’s going on?” Madeline asked inquisitively, the naivety of her voice making Marianne’s heart drop into her stomach. She was too young to understand. How Marianne would die to go back to her own youthful innocence. She sighed, holding back any sign of fear that would scare the child. She had to stay strong for her daughter, it was the only thing she could do in such a situation. “Ma fille, don’t worry. I’m here. It’ll be alright, I promise.”

 

Madeline blinked in confusion. “Is something bad happening, maman?”

 

“My dear,” Marianne pushed a stray hair from her face behind her ear, “No matter what happens, you know I’ll keep you safe.”

 

“Promise, maman?”

“Promise.”

——-------------

 

It was that day Marianne really got a first taste of the war. It was never something she could have anticipated, She had never felt such a sinking feeling in her chest like that fateful afternoon. She could practically hear German soldiers hailing taxis in their guttural sounding language, the audacity of which made her fume in her anti-German wrath which she tried to hide from of her daughter as best she could. The sight of them disgusted her. The battle front was practically only half a mile away and she could hear the loud booms and the machine fire like they were in her backyard, the occasional earth rattle when it came to hand grenades and missile fire.

 

Five days. What was only five days felt like it lasted for weeks, Marianne and Madeline huddled in their small but cozy open kitchen on the floor, living off of leftovers and whatever else they could find under candle light. Marianne was so worried that if she left the lights on they’d be spotted. She believed that the Germans had plans to invade the homes of the civilians, and that if they stayed off the grid she’d be able to keep her daughter safe. That was the most important thing to her. She’d throw herself in front of a ticking bomb if it meant that Madeline was left unharmed.

 

It was days later after the battle that the news finally released the casualty numbers. It was the first time that Trench warfare was used on the Western front, and it was especially deadly. New technologies mixed with old tactics was something that added to the lethality of it, which brought a sinking feeling to her stomach. 

 

250,000 French casualties.  
250,000 fellow citizens, men with wives, men with children-- brothers, lovers, country-men.  
All those people had lost their lives practically right outside her living room.  
The Parisian keeled over, hurling as she leaned against the dining table. She clutched her stomach, falling to her knees.

 

“Maman, are you alright?” A small voice lilted from the kitchen, peering up at the disheveled woman who had tears running down her rosy cheeks.

 

“Madeline, please go back to your room.” The woman had said with a crackle to her voice, giving her daughter a hug before pointing towards her door.

 

Maybe when she was older she’d be able to understand. The pain it was to know that your own people were dying in a sea of mud, realizing that the men she used to see walking the streets were faces of the now deceased. To lose so much faith in humanity that it was downright nauseating. She hoped she’d never have to know.

 

 

It had been months later that Marianne could feel safe leaving her house. The fighting had moved a little farther away from Paris, the sounds being not as audible as she travelled the streets for some marketed food. As much as the food supply was shortened quite some bit, it wasn’t being rationed. She could still go to the store and buy as much sugar as she wanted, just with a higher tax. They needed to feed the troops.

 

She intended to meet with an old friend for dinner that evening, a Belgian that had escaped Brussels in perfect timing to completely miss the invasion, as written in a letter. Marianne had been overjoyed at the news, telling her that they should dine together whenever time made it possible. The Battle of the Marne had definitely pushed that date back, but it was much more plausible now that it was over. The Parisian had a dinner planned, some Bisque soup and fresh bread, partly simple. There was really no place to be extravagant in times like these.

 

Madeline had helped to set the table, placing a vase of some fresh roses and tulips in the middle. They hadn’t had a guest in quite some time, so Marianne wanted to make a good impression. Madeline had been sitting patiently at the window, ordered to let Marianne know if they were arriving.  
When Madeline yelled from the living room, Marianne quickly shut the cabinet door and stood ready to open the door when it came knocking.  


 

“Hello!” The Belgian had cheered, giving her old friend a nice warm hug as she placed her hospitable gift onto the floor.

 

“Laura! How have you been?” Marianne said nicely, picking up the small gift that Laura had brought, examining it. “Awe, Laura, you really didn’t have to.”

 

Marianne wasn’t used to receiving gifts. She much preferred to give.

 

“Yes I did! It’s been such a long while, and you deserve it. Take it.” Laura spoke with a bright smile as she observed the nicely set table across the room. Her eyes lit up. “Wow! You really outdid yourself, Marianne. Your place looks lovely.”

 

“Come, sit.” Marianne said, sauntering over to the living room as Madeline came running over to greet the Belgian, practically toppling her over with a long, much needed embrace.

 

“Madeline! Oh, you’ve really grown. You have your mother’s curls!”

 

Marianne sighed happily, wistfully glancing over at the reunion in front of her. “She does. I swear she gets prettier every single day.”

 

As the duo sat down and Marianne began pouring some soup into Laura’s bowl, she couldn’t help but notice the small hint of cuts on her knuckles, and dark circles under her eyes. Quizzically she examined her, tilting her head. “Did something happen, Laura?” The Parisian took Laura’s hand, scanning it with a concerned gaze.

 

Laura’s smile faltered.  
“Tim was sent off to war so I had to take over his factory job. I’m surprised they let me take off my shift for a couple days. Because of the war effort I’ve been building weapons non-stop for the past couple weeks, but at least I feel like I’m contributing to a greater good.”

 

Marianne nodded as she listened to her story, pouring some wine into her glass before lighting one of the candles on the table.  
“Have you heard back from him lately?”

 

“Not really. He sent me a letter from the Western Front about a couple weeks ago. Nothing since. I’ve started to get rather worried. So many people died at Marne, I pray to God that he wasn’t one out of 250,000.”

 

The Parisian took a sip of the wine on the table, wistfully looking off to the side. Her heart ached for her friend. She knew how it felt to lose a loved one, nevertheless the feeling of uncertainty and hopelessness she most likely had.  
“At least you’re doing all you can to help. I’ve been wanting to contribute for a while, I just have no idea how to start.”

 

The Belgian’s ears perked up. “I was considering joining the nursing force. Apparently the Red Cross is in need of new recruits. There are also canteens.” She sipped her wine, blowing off her spoon due the heat of the soup.

 

“What are canteens?” Marianne tilted her head in intrigue.

 

“They’re relaxation centers for soldiers. They’re much more needed at this point in the war, it’s like a bloodbath out there. I can’t even begin to imagine the mental scarring.” The Belgian explained, taking a bite of her food.

 

 

Marianne nodded, raising her glass. “Well, enough about that. To eventual and long lasting peace.”

“To peace.”

 

\---------------

 

After the dinner concluded with a warm and much needed hug, Marianne watched as the Belgian got back into her car and as it turned a corner into the night. A part of her had a strange premonition of that being their final meeting. The war had already turned out to be lethal, there was really no avoiding it. She remembered holding her much tighter than usual, giving her an extra squeeze before she walked out the door.

 

Their conversation stuck even as the week went on. Was there really a chance to contribute to the war effort? Where could she sign up?

 

It had occurred to her in passing thoughts that there was a nearby hospital that had been clamoring for more workers for the past couple months. With new war technologies meant that the place was swarming with the injured, most likely out of inexperience and overall fate. They had been especially rooting for the, “aesthetically-pleasing” nurses. To say that soldiers were desperate was an understatement. They were the worst of their kind. She couldn’t blame them, though. She’d probably want to look at a pretty face too if she were going through that kind of physical and emotional trauma.

 

Laura finally wrote back to her about a couple weeks after their previous meeting, which was a huge sigh of relief for the Parisian. Any sort of contact with her friends meant that there was a sign that they were living and breathing, which Marianne needed. The paper smelled like freshly baked bread and coffee beans, little crushed tulips in between the envelope. It was a trademark of hers.

 

 

“Dearest Marianne,

I am leaving for the United States as the war is starting to become quite a little too close to home. It appears there has been a terrible accident. Tim sadly did not make it, as I received a letter a couple days ago. He died in the hospital due to excessive blood loss from an injury. I sincerely apologize for the dark subject, but I hope that you received this letter a week before my departure, which would be on the 5th of this month. My dear, if you consider it, I would love to take you and your daughter with me. The war is much too dangerous to be this close to, and if I were to lose you too it would break my heart. There is a train to Cherbourg that will be leaving on the afternoon of the 3rd. I hope that I can meet you there, and I hope this letter appears to you in good health.

Avec Amour,  
Laura Peeters.”

 

Marianne’s heart sunk into her stomach. It appeared that her suspicions were correct: she couldn’t imagine the grief she must be feeling.  
Poor Laura, she thought, having to deal with the loss of her brother. Marianne and Tim hadn’t been particularly close, she had always regarded him as rather stingy and extremely blunt. She once tried to borrow one of his pens and he asked her if she’d pay him money for it in all complete seriousness. However, he had a heart of gold even under all of that, and she knew to the extent of how she admired him.

 

She had no idea whether to accept this offer or not. Marianne had accepted a job at a local hospital where she’d be a working nurse almost full time, and if there was something she knew for sure, was that she would contribute for her country with all means necessary. She had never been the type to back down from intimidation. But she was a mother. She knew she was going to work long hours and how she was dying for some sort of caretaker for her daughter. Would she need to do this?

 

Once again she paced. She paced for hours, her toes beginning to burn with the amount of time she kept standing, pondering for an answer for god knows how long. With the small hints of childlike laughter erupting from Madeline’s room it made Marianne consider the following: risk Madeline’s life by making her stay and ending her childhood before it develops, or give Madeline off to Laura in the United States and risk her having to grow up without a mother.  
Not the easiest decision.

 

But the last choice made the more sense to her. Marianne just had to vow to herself that she’d do everything she could to stay alive, so when the war ended she could make sure to see her little one again. As sad as it was, it was the safest option.  
By the way the war was heading, this would be a dreary couple of years.

 

“Madeline, come out here for a minute.”

 

The little one came rushing in, a doll in her hand, as if she were still in the midst of a fantasy world. She tilted her head in curiosity. “Yes, maman?”

 

“You know I said I’d do anything to keep you safe, yes?” The Parisian could feel her chest tighten as she tried her best to try to explain. Her tone shifted to serious. “And that I love you no matter what?”

 

“Yes,” She began, clearly confused by her mother’s sudden change in tone.

 

Marianne inhaled. This wasn’t easy news to deliver. “I’m sending you off to live with auntie Laura, in America. Mommy has to work at the hospital and I’m afraid I won’t be home very much, and you’ll be safer there. We’ll be meeting with her in a couple days.”  
Tears pooled into her cerulean eyes.  


 

“I love you so much, ma fille. Come here, darling.”

 

Madeline burst into tears, clinging onto her mother at the news. It was only natural for her to react that way. Madeline had never met her father and her mother was the only person she really could rely on, and now she was being whisked away from her. “Mom, no! I don’t want to go.”

 

“I know you don’t, my love, but it’s the only way. Maman will be fine. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can, and I’ll send you letters every week. I promise.”

 

 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa thank you for reading! i'll try to update as much as i can, comments are definitely appreciated. love you guys!


	2. the rapture.

There were no words to describe the feeling of having to hold your daughter for what felt as if the last time. To know that when you were to return home there’d be an empty shell of them wherever you walked, that you wouldn’t be hearing their laughter from behind the door. The train station was especially packed and as much as she just wanted to stand there and let her tears subside she had been already been pushed by three equally eager civilians trying to leave. ‘How rude,’ she thought.

 

Marianne would be starting her new job that afternoon. As much as she was shaken by having to leave her daughter that previous morning, there was only so much she could do. At least she could go to sleep at night and not have to worry about her being caught in the crossfire of the war. That was one thing, she loved the American neutrality.

 

Getting into the hospital was chaotic by itself. Surrounding her was a crescendo of bustling workers, running from room to room. The walls were plastered white and sounds of the wounded would echo off the floors. It was a harmony of damage. She was expecting it to be bad, but nothing like this. The Battle of Ypres was in full swing, and even if it was farther away than where the hospital was stationed, soldiers were being dropped off every minute.

 

A man donned in a blue doctor’s coat and a mask covering his mouth saw her, and walked over. “Ah, Marianne. The new recruit.” He pointed towards one of the nurses on the other side of the room, gaining their attention and pointing back towards Marianne. “Isabel, take this new member into the nurse quarters and get her dressed up. I want her back here immediately afterwards.”

 

The urgency of his tone made her recoil on the inside. The nurse gave Marianne a slight smile before rushing her off, waning them through a crowd of other nurses who seemed to be in a frantic hurry. She then remembered why she sent her daughter away in the first place. If she were going to have to work in a place like this for long hours, god forbid she’d have to go home and raise a child.

 

As they approached the nurse quarters, she walked her to an empty locker before grabbing a uniform and practically throwing it at her. “Here. Get dressed quickly. There’s a flood of them that have been dropped off here by the minute. We need as many hands as possible.”

 

Marianne nodded accordingly, changing into her new uniform that felt as if it had been newly washed. It was still warm, but was quite stuffy, being rather tight around the waist. The nurse stood by the door, observing her. “Are you the new one?” Marianne noticed a small hint of Spanish as she spoke, cocking her head. She had tanned olive skin that contrasted her light green eyes, very mediterranean. 

 

Marianne looked over, her eyes flickering with the slightest bit of uncertainty. All of her senses were heightened considering how new the situation was, still trying to get used to the chaos. “Oui. I’m guessing your name is Isabel, as the man mentioned.” 

 

She nodded. “I was told there would be a new recruit. Marianne, right?” Isabel offered her hand, as if giving it off to Marianne for her to shake it with a rather friendly smile, highlighting her surprisingly bright teeth.

 

“Yes, nice to meet you.” Marianne said with a smile, shaking her hand. “Isabel is quite a pretty name.”

“I suppose.”

 

—

 

Marianne’s first job as a new recruit was making beds and doing laundry. Sometimes it would take hours to completely scrub off all the blood off a pair of sheets, which wasn’t uncommon for the amount of amputations she could overhear. Quite literally they were running out of morphine, so instead they’d have to ‘bite the bullet’. Screaming was commonplace. At intervals where she had free time, she was receiving minor training. As much as they weren’t picky about volunteers, there was no room for inexperience when lives were on the line. However, there was only so much you could do at a time like this.

 

“Add pressure to the wound to stop it from bleeding,” one of her coworkers had explained, who had been put on teaching duty. “Make sure it is disinfected, and check for major signs of gangrene. If the patient has a fever, well, let nature run its course. If it gets too high, use ice. Odds are you have many more patients in waiting, sometimes you have to leave it up to fate.” The woman began, running her hand through her long blonde hair. “Tuberculosis is running wild out there. Use a stethoscope to check the lungs for any signs of distress. Usually you can hear it, for breathing sounds more like a wretch than anything.”  
Her voice was rash and nonchalant, a certain intelligence to her tone. It sounded like it was fresh from London, piercing, stoic green eyes, probably from years of nursing. You could tell she wore her thoughts like a scar, implemented from being a witness. “Call me Alice, got it?”

 

Considering the British and the French were both fighting on the Western Front, it wasn’t unusual that the two nationalities blended together, especially in hospitals. When soldiers were hurt they were sent to the nearest one, so it really didn’t matter. Unless you were an enemy, which there were some of, but typically you were treated last due to animosity.

 

“Alice. Got it.” Marianne nodded. “How long have you been nursing?”

 

She paused, clearly taken aback by her sudden attempt at conversation. She had been halfway out the door, stopping to a halt. “A year now, actually. But I must go, I have a patient.” There was a rush to her words.

 

“Ah, oui. I understand.” Marianne smiled, “I guess I’ll see you around.”

 

Alice sent a small smile back her way before fast-walking out the door and down the hallway.  
For some reason Marianne didn’t seem to like this woman. There was something about her demeanor that set her off in the slightest-- maybe it had just been her denial at conversation. Either way, it hit a certain nerve with the Parisian, but she didn’t let it fester for too long.

 

There was a certain impatience wherever you stepped. Marianne was scared that wherever she was that she was in the way of someone or something, that she’d get toppled over by a distracted individual. As she left the room she had previously been in, she turned a corner towards another section. An eerie chill went down her spine as she realized the hallway had suddenly become vacant. It was haunting, the once bustling corridors now considerably silent. You could hear the faint sounds of coughing in the distance, some more intense than others, and from behind one door it sounded more like choking than anything else. This part of the hospital seemed to have been sanctioned off, so curiously she strolled through. Where were all the nurses? There were quite literally none, only the occasional groan from the inhabitants. It made Marianne feel particularly uneasy.

 

As she walked past an open door, a gargled, shrill sounding voice attempted to catch her attention. “Miss!”

 

Marianne’s head turned almost instantaneously. Alarmed, she peered into what seemed like an empty room, a shriveled up-- feverish looking man gazing back at her. Her heart raced in apprehension. “Hm?”

 

As she came closer to the door frame, he wheezed into his arm, a gravelly tone emerging from his chest as if his lungs had been full of water. It reminded her of something that had been explained to her earlier, but she couldn’t exactly put her finger on it. His eyes drooped low, a sheer look of desperation plastered onto his face. Dark bags hung under his grey eyes, a yellow undertone to his skin that was dampened with beads of sweat, a heave to his every breath. “Please… help me.”

 

She was surprised that he was even able to talk, his voice was almost painful to listen to. To the ears it felt like someone scraping their knee on a sandpaper floor. It made a part of her cringe deeply, like nails on a chalkboard. Marianne backed out of the door frame slowly. “Sir, I sincerely apologize, but I’m still rather inexperienced--”

 

“Help. Please.” The man begged, his rough voice getting louder with every plea. “I’m dying.” Tears pooled from his eyes as his eyes shot at her rather hopelessly. She had never seen a man so forlorn in her entire life. From the looks of him he appeared, at first, to have been a rather burly man-- broad shoulders that you could tell had once been littered with muscle, now left limp and smaller in size. His glassy grey eyes looked at her in despondency, a retch of a cough rippling through him as he covered it with the hollow of his elbow. He appeared to be virtually on the verge of death, trembling what she considered to be fear of the unknown. Marianne’s mind was left swimming with no possible idea how to assess the circumstances. She couldn’t just leave this man for dead and run away with reckless abandon-- her job was centered around the idea of saving lives. However, there was barely anything left in his eyes.

 

“Sir, I’m afraid I cannot--”

 

Marianne was cut off by the sound of loud, furious footsteps from nearby, becoming increasingly persistent with every passing moment. She could hear the clanking of heels against the hard floor, which were relatively familiar to the Parisian who had been caught off guard. As they turned the corner she recognized the flaming rage of a face she had seen from earlier.

 

Alice.

 

“ _Marianne_. What in god’s name are you thinking!” She roared, clenching her jaw with a stern glare pointed directly at her. “Do you know where you are?”

 

“No, miss. I’m afraid I don’t.” She trembled. Perhaps Marianne’s disliking of Alice was for good reason, she had quite the temper. 

 

Alice furrowed her brows. “This is the Tuberculosis ward. Quarantined. Cut off from the rest of the hospital for good reason. Did he cough on you!? You could be infected!” 

 

Marianne’s chest tightened in an anxious manner, crossing her arms. “No. He made sure to cover his mouth. Maybe if you didn’t want me roaming around here, you could have made an effort to tell me--”

 

“ _Enough_.” Alice bellowed, gritting her teeth. “It’s still in the air. I’m going to need you to get checked after this.” She placed her hand on her forehead, a loud sigh escaping her lips. “Do you realize how serious this is?”

 

“I would have realized that if you had mentioned it beforehand. It’s not like it was walking distance from where we were.” Marianne fired back, not appreciating the tone of her voice.

 

Alice shook her head. “Do you not understand that these people are practically on death row! We aren’t supposed to interact with them--”

 

Another heave filled the air, leaving the man gasping for breath. Hot tears fell down his face in despair, listening to the banter between the two women in front of him. Alice’s eyes shot back towards the man, her angered expression faltering quite some bit at the look of such a scene. Marianne noticed her faint change of heart, raising an eyebrow. “See? I couldn’t have just left him there. I thought that was our job. To help people.”

 

Alice’s expression changed. It was more so solemn, like something had just dawned on her. “Marianne, listen to me.” The British girl’s gaze returned to the light brunette next to her, green eyes darkening in midst of her anger. Her typical demeanor resurfaced, which of course was enmity. “You are a nurse. I know you’re a new recruit, but you have no idea what you’re in for. Don’t act like you know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what it means to be a nurse. Yes, we save lives, that’s valid. We help people. Definitely. However, you don’t know where to draw the line.”

 

“I was doing exactly what I was told to do.” Marianne scowled.

 

Alice’s fire came back full swing. “But you _weren’t_. That man is long, long gone. You’re risking yourself at this point. He’s infected, and you might be too now.” Her face turned sour, pressing her lips tightly together. “These people are already dead. This war has already turned out to be the most lethal in human history, you need to get used to it.” Alice grabbed her by the end of her sleeve, dragging her from out of the doorway towards the end of the hallway. Marianne struggled to grab hold of her own stance, trying to pull away from her grasp in defiance. “All you know is cleaning sheets. Let him die, Marianne.”

 

Her words loomed over her like an opaque sheet. If there was something Marianne could not do, it would be abandon somebody else. In the man’s eyes she saw her husband. Cold, feverish, nearly transparent. But even on his deathbed she never left his side. His hand that had once been vigorous and full of life, although calloused, had suddenly become limp over the curve of her stomach-- bursting with child. “Madeline. I’m naming her Madeline.”

 

He had a story. He had a life, he had dreams of being a father-- but all that was soiled by sickness. Lost in history. But she never abandoned him. Never.  


 

It sent a chill down her spine. In that man’s same likeness she saw hope, however, she had to accept that he was incurable. Which was tragic in itself. An ache spread through her body, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Marianne clung onto optimism, but despair rippled through her like an open dam. She had released the flood gates.  
A sob escaped her lips. At first it was a quiver, a twitch of the eye-- a distortion of her features. As the misery spread through her veins it was something she couldn’t control. It was like spilling lemon juice on an open wound.  
She remembered her husband. He was ambitious; kind. He wouldn’t have left anyone behind, and it inspired her.  
She saw him in her daughter. His fierce loyalty, his love, his generosity. When he died he took part of her with him, and it rattles her bones even to this day. The man back in the ward probably loved someone, too. He was clinging to life as if it was his only chance, like we was doing it for somebody else. Every single one of them in this ward was loved, yet they were lost.

 

Alice turned sharply on her heel to face the disheveled woman. Her thick eyebrow quirked, placing her hands on both of Marianne’s shoulders to look her straight in the eye. Alice was unmoved, incredibly stubborn. The Parisian tried to pull away once again, only to be shaken forcefully as if to wipe the emotions off her face. “ _Look_.” Alice swallowed thickly, her brows furrowing once again. “This is what I’m talking about. You can’t let your feelings get in the way of your purpose, and as heartless as this sounds, he deserves to die. Him being alive and festering is causing more people like him to exist. It’s one life in comparison to many.” She spoke logically, but to Marianne her words felt like a bite.

 

“But you could have prevented him from festering. He didn’t have to just have been sent here to die—“

 

All Alice saw was red. In wave of her animosity, the Brit’s hand hit hard against Marianne’s face, striking her cheek. There was a long pause afterwards, a deepened silence. The feeling of Alice’s palm against her skin lingered. It stung like a dull wound, the Parisian still blinking in shock.

 

“Focus on the people still living. While we were arguing about trying to save the incurable, there are people in beds right now wondering when they’ll receive treatment. I thought you wanted to save lives, you foolish brat.” She spat, wiping her hand on her dress. “People die, Marianne. Life goes on.”

 

Marianne stood there, stunned. Her eyes that once had been full of tears had become dry, glued to the floor, not sure how to handle the recent events. Her face had become red, wet with tears, still aching from the contact of the rather hard slap she received. She said nothing else. Alice had already stormed off, the sound of her clanking heels dimming as she turned the corner and burst into the double doors as they swung to a close.

 

The confrontation stuck with her for good reason. Maybe this job would be harder than she thought it would be.

 

But she’d do anything for her country. She knew her husband was watching.  
He’d be proud.

 

“For him,” she mumbled, “I’m doing this for him.”

 

—

 

From that day forth she’d just make sure not to encounter Alice under any circumstances, hoping that maybe she could avoid her at all costs. Unless she was forced to, which had happened. They both were assigned to the same patient, which meant awkward silences and exchanged glares. Mostly perpetrated by Alice, though. Of course.

 

The Parisian finally finished her training and now began to work on people instead of cleaning. It was an exciting couple of days when she was promoted, but it quickly droned on. As much as she was a lover of routine, it still greyed. However, she had to accept a handful of compliments. It was as if every room she walked into she’d get hit on by some soldier. They really were desperate, weren’t they.

 

Marianne thought she had seen everything. From working long night shifts when the bombardment came and all the bombing victims would get sent in, to gunshot wounds in rather… interesting places. Any kind of injury you could fathom. Trench foot, trench mouth, rat bites, you name it. All walks of life. Young, old, black, white.

 

In comparison to most days, today had been a particularly dry spell. The only case she had to work on since that morning was a man who had gone mad in room 234, violently thrashing limbs that she had to hold down. She tried her best to calm him, she even offered to sing to him if it made him feel any better, but his insanity had taken him by storm. It was nothing like she had ever really seen before. The mind was truly versatile, she thought. He eventually did soothe himself, his screaming coming to a pause as he resumed the rest of his day like nothing happened. It was wild to watch, it really looked like someone had just flipped a switch in his mind. He had asked for a proper meal, which most of them were running short on. They had barely enough food to pass, and nonetheless also had to feed the team of nurses that were barely running off any fuel. Marianne swore she had to ice her feet after every shift. She’d go through pairs of shoes every week.

 

She was surprised at the amount of weight she lost. She had shaven off most of the fat on her body just from working and stress alone, her uniform was becoming quite less stuffy than before. It was a light blue dress with an arm band around her right arm, a red cross plastered onto it. It came with a head cover that would hide her bun, white strands towards her shoulders. By the amount of change in her appearance alone, by god she’d be unrecognizable by the time she’d see her daughter again.

 

In passing time she’d write letters. Laura had become adamant about it, stating that if she didn’t receive one every couple days she’d become incredibly worried. Marianne couldn’t blame her though, she was still probably shaken by the loss of her brother. Madeline was attending school in the United States and was already learning to write and read, having scribbled somewhat legibly in a separate sheet of a letter. It was excruciating, knowing that you aren’t there to witness the growth of your child.

 

She wondered how different she’d be by the time the war was over. She’d be taller, for sure. Marianne was uncertain at this point for how long the conflict would last, it didn’t seem to be burning out anytime soon. Would she still have those bouncing blonde curls? Her light, angelic voice? Or would it deepen with age?

 

She tried not to think about it. If she lamented too hard on it, she knew it would drive her insane. She didn’t want to end up like the man in room 234, that was for sure.

 

Months had passed. The Parisian was gradually getting more experienced, and gaining more respect with her fellow nurses. There was something common between all of them she had met, they had all been doing it for all of three things-- their men, their country, and themselves. But mostly for somebody else. There was a sense of nationalism when it came to nursing, and with the blend of different nationalities between each other it was often a war amongst itself.

 

She had heard countless stories of fellow nurses where they talked about their soldier husbands. Marianne could never imagine the amount of stress they underwent. Being someone who was familiarized with that kind of grief she knew all but well how it felt. However, noting their feeling of uncertainty on top of that made her head spin. She even witnessed one of her coworkers get the death letter right in front of her. It made her heart ache.

 

As the Parisian grew more capable of handling more intense cases, she was on her feet a lot more than she used to. Her boss never lifted a finger, yet he’d be shoving her into more rooms she could count. Typical men. Her coworkers would roll their eyes at each other when he’d walk by and inspect their work ethic when he wasn’t looking. Being the male head nurse of the hospital meant that he thought he ran the place. Marianne always considered him a coward, knowing that he used his job as a ticket out of avoiding the draft. After finishing her job in room 26, a man who had specifically requested her for obvious reasons, she was excited to finally have a break so she could eat her lunch. Time for yourself was especially scarce in times like these.

 

As Marianne began to venture off into the nurse’s quarters she felt a light tap on her shoulder from behind.  
Of course.  
Inquisitively she turned to face the mysterious person, realizing that it was Mr. Montclaire, the head nurse. She should have just expected this. She already knew what he was going to ask.

 

“Marianne, dear, there’s a man in room 204 that has an incredible fever. He just had an amputation, but I believe it didn’t go too well. I think his leg has an infection, however, there’s not much else we can do. Just go… work your magic. See you later.” He was about to dash off, when he stopped once again.  
“Wait, Marianne?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You might have to uh.. Put him out of his misery.” He said rather grimly, a hollow expression to his features. “Here, take my pistol, we’re out of morphine.”

 

Marianne’s pupils trembled as she took the gun in her hand. If anything, she felt as if this was too much power and responsibility for her to handle, taking someone’s life. However, she couldn’t deny her boss. This was her job.

 

‘ _Just go work your magic_.’  
Men were so entitled. She rolled her eyes.

 

And so she headed forth. Trudgingly, wanting nothing more than to take a break. On her way there she had passed the kitchen, her mouth practically watering, and reminding herself she had a job to do. But god, was she hungry.  


 

She approached the 200 ward, turning a corner towards room 204, which already had the door open. As Marianne walked in you could tell the patient had been waiting, sitting in a rather uncommon position. Propped up, he must have heard her coming, because there was already a smirk on his face.

 

“Hey there, darling.” He cooed, glancing at the name tag on her uniform that she had just recently acquired, “Marianne, huh? When I asked ‘send your prettiest nurse’, they sure lived up to my expectations.” A British accent tinged at his words. A cigarette hung at his lips, smoke wafting out of it. 

 

God, not this again.  
Marianne had been trained to object any advancements made by her patients. It was simply unprofessional otherwise.

 

“I’m afraid you can’t smoke in here,” she berated, raising an eyebrow. “Who gave you those?”

 

He scoffed, running his hands through his hair. “Unimportant. However, if I don’t smoke I might literally die. Don’t try it.”

 

‘You already are,’ she thought.

He had medium-length, messy blonde hair that mingled with an untameable set of eyebrows. Sharp features mixed with the small hint of the feverish shade to his skin, freckles peppering under his eyes. Small hints of cuts and bruises up his arm and one directly under his neck.

 

“Thank you, sir. Now, is there anything you particularly need?” Marianne hoped that this wouldn’t take too long. Sure, he was on his deathbed, but she wasn’t having an especially wonderful morning.

 

“Someone to help me out of this bed. You know, it gets quite lonely in here. I need something to do.” He winked, Marianne feeling notably uncomfortable. He had attempted to shift out towards the edge of his bed, obviously struggling. Marianne rushed to his side, he was almost falling out of it.

 

“Sir, you have a fever and only one leg.”

“And you have a beautiful smile. Do you guys serve scotch?”

 

She was so close to just walking right out the door and going home. She had never been so physically done with something in her entire life. She sighed, sitting at the foot of his bed. “We don’t serve alcohol to patients. I thought you could assume that.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like an angel?”

 

Another sigh escaped her lips.  
She had heard everything and more. There was really no denying she was pretty, though.She had long, wispy blonde hair that framed her face and rosy lips. Her cerulean eyes were met with long eyelashes and noticeable cheekbones. She had a beauty mark on the side of her face that would irritate her, but it didn’t soil her beauty in the slightest. “Thank you, sir, but really. What do you need?”

 

The man’s smirk returned. “Well, I don’t particularly _need_ anything, but I do want someone to talk to. I thought a pretty girl might satisfy those needs, so take a seat.”

 

She didn’t get paid enough for this.  
But this was her job. Talking to a dead man was the least she could do, other than give him an ice bath, which she was told he blatantly refused. Then why was she assigned to him? Why was he still here? She sat down with an annoyed expression, justifiably vexed.  
“I’m all ears.” She said, but deep inside she was incredibly apprehensive to say so.

 

The man clasped his hands together, as if to prepare a speech. “The name is Arthur Kirkland. Glad to make your acquaintance. And you are?”

 

Marianne slowly took one of the cigarettes from the pack on the nightstand that he had most likely smuggled, lighting it with the nearby lighter. Hey, she needed it too, don’t get her wrong. “Marianne Bonnefoy.”

 

“I’m guessing you’re French. I think that’s the most French sounding name I’ve ever heard.” He chuckled, running his hand through his hair.

 

“Clearly you haven’t met a man named Pierre Dupain-Clemence Sunnoir. He was my old English teacher growing up.”

 

He snorted, a goofy grin highlighting his features. “I’m from London if you haven’t noticed. I’m a soldier. Well, was. I don’t think they’ll let me back on the field with only a leg and a half.” He sighed, saying something so grim but contradictingly optimistic. Perhaps there was a good outcome to not having to be in the trenches again. “I was in a squadron with 185 men originally. By the time I came here there were only 18 left. Do the math, I guess.”

 

Marianne’s smile faltered, looking at him in concern. She couldn’t even imagine the amount of traumatic events he witnessed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I… uh, how did you lose your leg?” She asked curiously, tilting her head.

 

Arthur’s smirk returned. “Well, actually miss, while I was fighting gloriously against the Germans, someone threw a grenade right next to me! At least everything else still works, or else I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.” He winked.

 

She didn’t understand his optimism with such a subject but as long as he was alright, she wouldn’t worry. Perhaps that was his way of handling it. Everyone had a different way of grieving, she guessed. “Oh, wow.”

 

“Oh wow is right, my lady! I killed eight of those vermins that day. In total I’m sure I killed twenty Germans. Not to brag, or anything.” He said rather confidently, taking another breath of smoke.

 

“You mean definitely to brag, I’m sure.” She chuckled, pushing a hair behind her ear. She had always had a distaste for the Germans, but she had never met a man so opposed to them. Maybe it was the outcome of war. Pitting men against each other for no reason except for place of origin. “How long were you fighting?”

 

“A year and a half. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, really.” He blew some smoke into the air, his green eyes gazing back over at her. “Worst first year of my entire life.” His tone shifted, going from cheerful to rather wistful.

 

Marianne raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

 

He paused, calculating his words. It was if something truly bothered him, which she wasn’t surprised that it did.

 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to answer that.”

 

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I want my story to be heard.”

 

Marianne who had been leaning on her elbows shifted to recline back, nodding approvingly.

 

“It was 1914. I really didn’t have anything else to do, no wife, no kids. For a man who’s almost twenty-two, it’s as sad as it sounds. I really had nothing to lose, so of course, I joined the forces. You see, they made it seem like this noble cause. Like being blown to bits was honorable. The first thing I witnessed as a recruit was a man who started a fistfight because there wasn’t enough bread. Ever seen a rat the size of your forearm?” He began, taking a deep breath as if to collect himself. “I loved my fellow comrades. There was a boy, barely sixteen, who had joined illegally. I never understood. Why would anyone willingly send themselves to die? I held him in my arms while he suffocated, too young and inexperienced to know when to take his mask off. When the gas comes, our masks are our only safety. He took his off too early.”

 

Marianne gasped, too deeply moved to say anything else.

 

“And there was barely any tea! I couldn’t have my cuppa most mornings. That must have been the worst part.” He sat up, looking over at her in complete seriousness. “You do not want to be around a British man who hasn’t had his tea in the morning.”

 

Marianne chuckled, cracking a wide smile. “I would have guessed.”

 

“The stench was horrid. Think of the worst thing you’ve ever smelled, multiply it by ten, and add nine pounds of rotting flesh on top of that.” He gagged at the memory. “I once saw a man who’s entire mouth had rot from the inside. I’ve never wanted to vomit so bad in my entire life.”

 

Trench mouth. It wasn’t uncommon.

 

“That’s.. horrible. I’m sorry to hear that.” She rubbed the back of her neck, unsure how else to respond.

 

“Don’t worry about it, love.” He grinned, “I’ve seen worse. I’m guessing you know what I’m talking about, nurses have to deal with all of that.”

 

She nodded in response, crossing her legs. “I’ve had to deal with at least three cases of trench mouth. And foot. Mostly foot, though.”

 

“Isn’t it the most vile thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Pretty much.”

 

He chuckled, smothering the flame of his cigarette against the bed frame. “That even isn’t the most vile thing about the war. It’s unspeakable. The amount of sheer horror that this war brings is enough to give a healthy man a heart attack.” He continued, reclining back onto his elbows. “I’m glad I’m on my deathbed right now so I don’t have to deal with all the mental scarring for too long.”

 

Marianne winced at his words. He was right. This war was unfathomably grim, and it was only getting worse. “You do realize that we can cure your fever if you’d let us.”

 

He crossed his arms. “Do you not realize that I don’t want to be here? It’s been a long twenty two years. I mean, I already know I’m going to hell, it’s honestly go big or go home. I’d rather get it over with.” He chortled, rubbing his forehead that was undeniably hot. The poor man was sweating bullets. “On a lighter note, or the latter, how is nursing?”

 

“I’ve seen things in this hospital that could make a grown man cry. Definitely the latter.” She shot back, leaning in her chair.

“That was quite melodramatic, don’t you think?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Says the man who had a crisis over lack of tea.”

“Hey, watch it!” He joked back, as if to lightly punch her in the side of her arm. He sneered, a devious grin enhancing his features. “You know, I like you. You’re witty.”

She noticed the small crinkle in his nose when he’d laugh and admired it. “I’m not sure where I stand with you. You’re witty, yes, but undoubtedly annoying.” She teased, “It weighs out, but it’s endearing, I guess.”

“Ah, endearing? I guess we’re heading somewhere.” 

 

\--

Their conversation lasted hours. Arthur had encouraged her to eat her lunch while he went on a half-hour rant about the education system, and where Marianne swore he made her laugh so hard mascara ran down her face. As much as he was a flirt he was rather entertaining, a quick-witted tongue. He told her stories about him and his comrades messing around in the barracks, which included him pissing off a high-class commander by putting two fully-grown male chickens in his office, watching as they fought and proceeded to tear his room apart. Arthur was glad he never got caught, because if he did, he would have been dead meat.  
Marianne cried of laughter. It sort of applied to his character, she guessed.

 

As time went on he became weaker. She offered him some of her lunch but he had refused that too, stating that he wasn’t too hungry.

 

His pain returned. He had expressed it through a series of loud cries when it struck through his veins like fire and ice. She remembered what Mr. Montclaire had mentioned. That when he was in this state, there was nothing to do except put him out of his misery. However, she had grown so attached to him in such a short time that the thought of it made her stomach ache. 

 

He had noticed the shift in her stance and the queasiness in her face.  
“Hey, Marianne?”

 

“Yes?”

 

He paused, collecting his thoughts. “Is it… my time to go?”

 

She had told him, that if he really wanted her to, she’d shoot him. She expressed that there was really nothing she could do about his infection, or at the most, she didn’t really know if there was.

 

Marianne’s eyes welled up with tears. “I’m afraid it is, if you’d like that.”

 

He nodded, lying back into his chair. Perhaps he had come to terms with his fate over the past couple of hours. “I hope when this war ends you can find peace. No matter where. Maybe this godforsaken world can wake up sometime soon. But remember me, if you can or want to. I’m not sure if these are my last moments or not, but I want you to know that you deserve everything and more. There aren’t too many people like you left.”

 

Marianne’s hand shook as she took the pistol from out of her pocket. He was a good man, even under all that sarcasm. Although if this was the only good way out, he didn’t deserve to die. Alice had taught her to aim for the head, it was a painless relief that way. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.” Her eyes trembled, tears running down her face in a hopeless manner.

 

“It’s alright, love. I’m glad I talked to an angel before I left.” He said with a wistful smile, closing his eyes as if to brace himself.

 

Marianne could barely move her hand enough to put her finger on the trigger. She intended to aim directly for the head, in which he wouldn’t have time to feel any pain before he died. He had gone through enough already.

 

‘ _Pull the trigger_.’  
She thought.

 

She couldn’t. She couldn’t do it.  
‘ _Pull the fucking trigger_.’  
Her mind whizzed, her breath hitching.

 

‘ _He’s going to die no matter what you do, Marianne. Do it quick. This is your only chance_.’

 

She opened her eyes that had once been closed and took a second to admire his features. She had to admit, he was rather handsome. She noted how his chest would rise and fall with every breath, knowing it was the last time she’d see that. Before the blood would splatter the walls and he’d be gone forever. His eyes were closed so she couldn’t see the dreamy green she had once gazed into, which she terribly missed already. She held his string of fate between her fingers, she just had no idea how to cut the cord.  
‘ _Do it. Do it now_.’

 

Marianne’s finger grazed the trigger, which was already wet with the sweat of her palm. She trembled, adding pressure to the button.

 

‘ _You got this, Marianne. 1….2….3….4!_ ’

 

The door flung open before she could push any more into the trigger. She tensed, dropping her pistol to the floor which had released a bullet right into the wall next to him.  
She felt Alice’s breath on her neck.  
“What on earth do you think you’re doing!” Alice bellowed, gazing over at the man who had been abruptly shaken to sit up. His eyes glistened with a sort of familiarization that Marianne had no idea how to read. He seemed like he recognized her.

 

Marianne whipped backwards to face the woman, who already was fuming. She took the gun off the floor and held it in her hands.

 

“I was following Mr. Montclaire’s orders.” Marianne looked at her in a sort of confusion that both engulfed her and terrified her at the same time.

 

“Bullshit. Mr. Montclaire has no idea what he’s doing. He has a bacterial infection that could easily be fixed with some sanitizer.” Alice’s words stung, extremely bitter. “Marianne, if you make me lose one more patient today with your own inexperience I swear I will take this gun and shoot you myself.”

 

Marianne looked at her in absolute horror.

 

Alice had already rushed to his side. “And by god, I’m not letting you shoot my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOO MUCH HAPPENED IN THIS CHAPTER WHOOO BOY. 
> 
> also i depict arthur a lot more different than canon arthur?? sorry idk


	3. liquid courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS ABOUT TO GET SO MESSY IM SORRY

Marianne had awkwardly shifted herself into the corner while Alice attempted to sanitize the wound. Through all of his screaming while Alice doused him in acidic cleanser, Marianne couldn’t help but breakdown a bit. She was so close to killing a man who had as much hope as he did all because she didn’t know what to do. He would have died when he was perfectly capable of being cured and the blood would have been on her hands. Nevertheless, it was the man who was related to the woman who had a list of reasons why she didn’t like her, as if this day could get any better.  
“Marianne, don’t just sit there. I need a wet cloth, stat. Make sure the water is cold.” Alice ordered.

 

The Parisian got up rather stiffly and ran over towards the bathroom on the left side of the hall, gabbing a cloth from the fresh laundry bin and dousing it in water from the faucet. She rushed, nearly sprinting back into room 204. Her heart raced, mixed with adrenaline and shame.

 

“Put this on his forehead. He’s burning up again.” Alice spoke coldly, finishing up her sanitation as she wrapped the wound in fresh bandage. Her hands were meticulous and experienced, Marianne had no idea how she handled situations like this. Especially having to operate on someone you loved, such as her brother.

 

Marianne couldn’t see Alice ever forgiving her after this. She almost was responsible for his death. She nodded, doing as told, the feverish Briton gazing up to look at her. As much as his wound still stung he couldn’t help but smile softly, his eyes glistening with a certain form of life he didn’t know he still had.

 

“Alice, please don’t be too mad at her. She really had no idea what to do.”

 

Alice crossed her arms. “And it would have costed you your life. Are you really making up excuses for this wretch?”

 

Marianne sighed, running her hand through her hair with her free hand. She was right. If Alice had any reason to like her by now she’d be shocked.

 

He gasped, surprised at his sister’s vehemently worded statement. “Jeez, I’m guessing you two have history?”

 

Marianne and Alice both exchanged glances, Alice’s gaze more of a glare than anything else. They both looked back at him, who had been staring at his sister with a foremost confusion.

 

“So… am I right?”

 

Alice nodded aggressively before adding some finishing touches to his bandage, finishing her job as she pat it lightly with her palm. She looked back up at him. “It’s done. You can sit up, now.”  
He sat up with a crack of his knuckles, Marianne removing the wet cloth from his forehead as she stood off to the side. He looked at his sister with a forlorn grimace that must have had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t seen her for a year and a half.

 

“I sent you letters, you know.” He broke the silence between the two, Alice’s eyes who had been glued to the floor lifting up to meet his. 

 

She shook her head. “If you did I would have received them. Don’t lie to me.”

 

Marianne sensed the tension in the room and felt it would be better to leave them alone. She looked over at Arthur, who was just as apprehensive, before nodding off and closing the door behind them.

 

Alice continued. She no longer could smell the hint of fresh lavender perfume and felt it more plausible to speak her mind. “You little shit. You little _shit_ ,”

 

“Stop it. You know I had to leave home for good reason. I’m a man now, can’t you see?” Arthur interrupted her, waving his hand around. “I fought for our country. You should be _proud_.”

 

Alice’s tongue was as sharp as a knife as she glared daggers into his eyes. She knew exactly what he was trying to say but stood her ground. If anything, she inherited her stubbornness from her father, but she was also a typical taurus. The two mixed together was a recipe for tenacity. “You dared to leave off to die without saying a word. You left me and mum behind, without an explanation whatsoever. Mum was practically on her deathbed and this is how you repay her? For all that she’s done? How dare you, you piece of _shit_ \--”

 

Arthur had the same hot-headed tendencies as his sister. Which, of course, paired together, was like fighting fire with gasoline. “I fought for you. I fought for our family, don’t you dare tell me that it wasn’t worth it. I nearly died three times and I would have died for the glory of our country, I did it out of sheer bravery and strife. I come back from war and the horrors of fighting and you tell me that I’m a piece of shit? This is how you repay _me_?” He began, pounding on his chest like a true nationalist. “All you’ve done is yell at Marianne and maybe clean some wounds. You have no idea what it’s like to be in the trenches with shells flying past you at all times. I’ll let you know that I had to hold a dying boy in my arms--”

 

“While I have to patch them up. I had to hold a man’s internal organs in, once. A man came in with half of his face blown off and I had to operate on him. You think trench foot is bad? You might have had to shit in a mud-hole once but I’ve had to clean that up for days. Don’t you dare minimize my accomplishments. At least I didn’t leave mum to die, and consider her son fighting for his life while she died. You could have at least been there.” She trembled in her rage, pointing her finger directly at his face. Her sharp nose crinkled at the sides in a light snarl. She didn’t have the patience to control her rage at any case, letting all of her pent up emotions build up in her eyes, allowing it to release.

 

Arthur was left staggering. “What?”

 

“What?” Alice’s lip quivered.

 

“Mum is… dead?” Arthur’s mouth hung open, his pupils wobbling as he stared at his sister astoundedly, lost for words.

 

Alice’s complexion paled. “Maybe if you had told me where I could have contacted you I would have been able to tell you sooner. She passed two weeks after you left.” She was solemn, rubbing her forearm with her other hand as if to calm herself down. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

 

Arthur, who had been previously fuming with indignation, had abruptly switched into a more calm emotional chaos, all from the fact that he could barely believe what she had mentioned. He appeared composed on the outside, closing his mouth. His own emotional trauma that he carried mixed with the unfortunate news had his own thoughts bubbling inside of his mind, his heart rate beginning to race as the room around him became incredibly blurry. He was the subject of his own depersonalization, as he tried to make understanding of his situation. His comrades and his mother was dead. His mother died without ever hearing from her son. He was two weeks into the barracks acting like he was on top of the world while Alice’s world crumbled around her. All of that, and he had been ignorant to it?

 

Alice stared at him. He appeared so unmoved, peering off into space. He seemed hypnotized.

 

He was about to cry, yes, but the amount of energy he had lost throughout this whole process enabled him only to sit there. 

 

Alice waved her hand in front of his face, attempting to break him out of this trance. “Arthur, you alright?”

 

“Yep. Just fine. Don’t worry about me.” He nodded, his voice cracking as he spoke. He was never the type to cry in front of others. In fact, he tried his best to hide his emotions as best he could. He was on the verge of a complete breakdown, however, he contained it-- like a ticking bomb with a close fuse.  
Alice quirked her eyebrow. How was he handling it so well? She was expecting an explosion of emotions, while he just sat there with just a small twitch of his eye. She shook it off. He’d probably let it fester and let it hurt later. Perhaps that was his way of coping.

 

Alice glanced at the clock on the wall, checking her internal schedule. She had a couple patients she’d have to be meeting with in a couple minutes, and as much as she loved this new reunion with her sibling, she really had places to be. He seemed like he was perfectly capable of being by himself, considering how well his leg was wrapped up now, maybe just a couple extra check ups towards the end of the day and he’d be as good as gold.

 

“Well, Arthur, I’m glad we got this settled.” Alice took a deep breath, walking towards the door. “I love you.”

 

“Hey, wait, where are you going?” His tone was urgent, which surprised her nonetheless. As if he was scared she’d leave him by himself.

 

Alice tilted her head. “I have some patients I have to meet up with. I’ll check back on you in a bit, okay?” She said with a rare smile towards him. “I’m glad you’re okay, though. I thought I’d never see you again.”

 

The corners of his lips upturned just slightly. “I’ll see you later.”

 

“Alright. Bye.” She said as she made her departure, walking down the hallway towards another sector of the hallway.

 

As the door closed he felt the staleness of the air. The walls closed in on him and he felt helpless, silence that felt incredibly loud. His ears rang. There were eyes in the drywall that would watch him, feeling like he was being stared at in every direction, vulnerability. He felt like he was back in the trenches, the loud booms and the shells whizzing past his ears-- under siege. God, what if his mother was still alive? She’d hold him in her comforting arms, tell him it would all be okay. She could have helped him; he didn’t let her. He was at fault. She died with his name on her lips with no response and it was his fault. 

 

His head spun.

 

When she left, he left him in an arena of anxiety. For the first time since he left he opened wounds that he never truly wanted to open. Like watching the life of a German soldier leave his eyes. Perhaps he had a mother waiting back home, too. In the fire he was not human. He was left swimming in animalistic tendencies, heart like a drum beat that would course through his veins. He remembered only being able to feel his own breath, all of his senses heightened-- staying stiff in a sea of mud across his face.  
And god, he remembered the fear he had.  
The horrible, terrible fear, that no amount of training could prepare you for.

 

Behind the closed iron door of room 204, he became a child once again. Aching for the comfort of his mother that he didn’t have anymore.

 

\----------------

 

Marianne ignited her cigarette in a spark of her lighter and leaned back in her chair. The nurse’s quarters were especially vacant today, only met with the smoke wafting through the air and the occasional laughter of the two girls who sat beside each other. There was Isabel, the mediterranean woman who surprisingly had a good sense of humor and an optimistic outlook, who fit just perfectly with the Parisian. They even wore a similar hairstyle, which wasn’t intentional.  
A day had passed since the Arthur incident. Alice still won’t bear to look at her and for some reason, Marianne didn’t care as much anymore.

 

“And she told me, ‘Marianne, all you’re good for is cleaning sheets’. The audacity…” She shook her head, earning an honest laughter by the Spanish girl next to her. “She also slapped me and had the nerve to call me a ‘wretch.’”

 

“You? The wretch?” Isabel looked shocked, “ _Please_. Honey, I have never seen another woman in such a need for an eyebrow tweezer in my entire life.”

 

Marianne choked on the wine she had smuggled between them in a flask with a cut off laugh. “Mon dieu. I’ll drink to that.”

 

The two of them had found a common interest: talking smack about one nurse in particular. It was a favorite past time of theirs. Isabel was generally a cheerful, optimistic woman who rarely took it upon herself to be rude, except with people who were generally asking for it. Marianne was the perfect candidate to release all of her pent up animosity towards people she didn’t like, so they’d meet at least once a week to discuss. Days of the week that they’d meet varied. It would depend on each other’s schedules, of course.

 

“You know how Alice and I also got assigned to work on a case together, right?” Isabel mentioned, after Marianne had told her about all the awkward glares she had maintained with their person of interest.

 

Marianne nodded in intrigue, as if encouraging her to continue.  
“Well, she literally wouldn’t shut up for twenty minutes, telling me everything I was doing wrong.” Isabel shook her head as she rolled her eyes. “She thinks she’s this nursing god.”

 

Marianne smiled in agreement. “I know, right? Ma cherie, someone needs to knock her off her high horse.”

 

Isabel laughed, lightly punching the woman’s shoulder.

 

A comfortable silence overcame them. They sat, Marianne’s head resting on her shoulder as if it wasn’t taboo, a nice show of affection between the two. Isabel really was her rock when it came to the calamity of the place, she knew she had her back. She would have never expected to find such a good friend in a place like this. Time passed, just the two of them, passing around a flask in between puffs of their cigarettes.

 

Marianne paused, lifting her head from her shoulder and sitting upright with a stretch. “Hey, I’ve been intending to ask you this for a while, but what got you into nursing? Here, at least.”

 

Isabel paused, looking off into an unknown distance where Marianne seemed to be puzzled. She snapped out of it, gazing back towards Marianne as if she had been lost in thought. “Hm, I mean-- like everyone else, I volunteered. The economy isn’t all that great back home, and I thought this would be a nice change.” She answered truthfully, rubbing the side of her neck. “Besides, my aunt is Catalan and my aunt’s husband is Parisian, I thought it would only be customary to give my support. We are, so to speak, neutral.”

 

Marianne nodded intently as she listened. “Ah, yes, I have a few Catalonian friends too, they are a beautiful people.”

 

“They truly are.” Isabel smiled wistfully.

 

Another silence overcame them. This time, Marianne had closed her eyes and almost dozed herself to sleep, Isabel being entranced to do the same. The tranquility of the quiet room in contrast to what they had been dealing with the rest of the day was nothing short of bliss. The duo had managed to get twenty minutes of sleep in, Marianne’s sleeping head on Isabel’s lap while her head leaned against the wall of the floor. The two faced no interruptions for a good amount of time, which was surprising for the amount of people that would normally come in and out. There was none of that this time at least.

 

Until of course,  
Alice.

 

She snapped her fingers twice in front of the Spaniard’s face, first. Marianne woke up right afterwards, due to the sudden jolt. Isabel’s eyes widened to see the face of the Brit who had raised an eyebrow in annoyance.

 

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.” She crossed her arms. “You two are on duty. There is no room for taking wine naps,” She pointed towards the flask that was in plain sight, confiscating by putting it in her dress pocket.

 

‘God, what a _bitch_.’ Marianne thought to herself.

 

“Get up. Now.”

 

Isabel lightly shoved Marianne off of her, doing as told, taking Marianne by the hand and helping her up. “Jeez, jeez, okay, dios mío--”

 

“Do you girls really think you can get away with this? How unprofessional,” Alice began with a scoff, “Get to work.”

 

Marianne rolled her eyes over at Isabel who was giving her that same look of, ‘oh my god, someone please shoot this lady’, Alice stopping them to a halt before they attempted to leave.

 

“And you, Marianne.”

 

“Yes?”

 

Alice took in a deep, bitter breath. “Arthur has requested you in room 204.”

 

\----------------

 

Marianne curiously stepped into the room, who like the first time, had been sitting propped up in a rather… interesting position. “God, Marianne. It gets so lonely in here. It’s _unbearable_.” He said jokingly dramatic, imitating a swooning woman.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“I don’t really want anything except for you to listen to this joke I thought of. You ready?”

 

Marianne held her forehead. “Arthur, I have 3 patients that I forgot about.”

 

“And I’m one of them. So listen up.” Arthur paused as if to get Marianne to brace herself, building up the suspense.

 

Marianne sighed, sitting down in compliance. “Yes, what is it?”

 

Arthur cleared his throat. “Alright. Listen,” he began, already beginning to chuckle, “What kind of tea is the hardest to swallow?”

 

‘Typical Arthur,’ Marianne thought.  
“What?”

 

Arthur paused for comedic effect.  
“Reality.”

 

It took Marianne a second to understand what he meant before sighing, holding her face in her hands. She reluctantly giggled a bit.  
“That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard, mon cher.”

 

A light blush highlighted his features, laughing so hard he held his sides. He must have thought it was the funniest thing he had ever come up with. His hand slipped from under his pillow to reveal a flask, that was potently full of whiskey.

 

Jesus, turns out she wasn’t the only one with a drinking problem.

 

“ _Arthur_. You shouldn’t be drinking that, you’re still recovering!” Marianne took the flask from his hand, earning a frown from the seemingly intoxicated Brit who she had finally recognized as such.  
That explained a lot, really.

 

“Bullshit. You want some? There’s enough to go around, love.” He said, cocking his head.

 

It was quite literally four in the afternoon.  
She had already drank half a flask of wine.  
She had three more patients.  
But… whiskey? As much as it tasted like Satan’s spit it seemed like a relief, at least.  
God. A tempting offer.

 

“Where did you… get that?” Marianne asked, hoping that wherever he got it, it was sanitary.

 

Arthur hiccuped. “I have connections.”

 

Marianne raised an eyebrow once again. Sure, she knew that this was a horrible idea, but getting yelled at by your shitty superior nurse for taking a nap and having to deal with corny jokes really got to your head.  
“Alright. Fine,” She began, taking a deep breath, “You are a terrible influence.”

 

She took a swig at first to get used to the taste. And then another, but gulping down much more. It burned down her throat and she practically gagged, but it sat in her stomach with a sort of warmth that made her take smaller sips once again. “ _Merde_ , this is strong.”

 

Arthur watched amusingly. He somehow found her ballsiness to drink in large amounts while still working to be incredibly attractive. It was also, most likely, the alcohol. He’d do anything with legs in that state if he was moved enough. For example, a table.  
“Good girl.” He said, motioning the flask over to him. He placed it onto the nightstand next to the two of them, crossing his arms with a smirk to his face. “I bet you’ll start feeling it soon.”

 

He ignited in a sort of laughter that only a drunk man could emit. It caused Marianne to start laughing, just at the severity of it. She didn’t find what he just said relatively funny in the slightest, however, everything of course is much more hilarious when you’re inebriated.

 

Like he said, it began to affect her quite quickly, just on the account of how much she drank in that little of time. Of course, she wasn’t blackout drunk, she could definitely control herself-- however, if asked to operate that may be sort of an issue.

 

You could sort of tell she was under some kind of influence, but not enough to be alarming.  
As much as she was an alcoholic, she was smart.

 

The two of them had a drawn out conversation on the topic of social standards. She was surprised. As much as he was a perverted asshole, he supported women’s rights nevertheless. A contradiction.

 

Time passed. She was surprised no one had come to look for her, because it had been hours. Marianne had increasingly become less and less guarded, even finding it better if she had laid in the bed with him, much to his enjoyment. His hand was curled under his pillow, an attempt at trying to lie on his side to face her, even with his bandaged leg. His eyes were glassy with intemperance with a gaze that flickered from her eyes to her lips. He was like an animal, waiting, watching.  
She, on the other hand, had her fixated eyes on the ceiling. There was always a side effect to her tipsiness that she always tried to avoid.  
She got emotional. Very.

 

For some reason, Marianne’s drunken mind had brought up memories of her deceased lover, and how they’d use to lie in bed just as she was now, and talk about their dreams. He was a man of great moral standards and a creative, fastened mind. He loved all things romantic and it was something that drew her to him. Indelibly.  
And god, his lips. They’d nibble at her neck and leave her speechless. He’d speak lines of poetry against her skin and leaving her aching for more just with a simple touch. He could bring empires to their knees and have her screaming gospels with his fingers in her mouth.  
She tried to shake the feeling of him off but even several years later she couldn’t find it within herself.

 

“Arthur,” Marianne paused, tears welling up in her eyes; the kind she couldn’t hold back.

 

He gazed at her with a concerned look that even he was surprised at. With his somewhat lack of empathy at times, his inebriated self somehow managed to sum up any last bits of it left as he peered at her. She looked wonderfully pathetic. Stunning, actually. The fleeting sunlight in the sky left a peachy glow to her skin, highlighting the softness in her eyes.

 

“Yes, love?”

 

“I used to be married, you know.”

 

“Excuse me?” Arthur’s eyes widened. He, of course, loved tea. Not just the physical, drinking kind. “You.. what now?”

 

“My husband died several years ago.” She spoke solemnly, turning on her side to face him. Their close proximity had the Brit’s heart doing somersaults whereas the saddened Parisian was too numb to feel anything. “He died before my daughter was born.”

 

He was baffled. Truly baffled.

 

“God, you have a daughter too? I could have sworn you were nineteen.” He scratched his head in confusion. “You look so young.”

 

“I’m twenty-six, actually.” She mentioned. “I was nineteen when I had her.” She was flattered at his compliment, however, she was still unchangeably melancholy. It was hard to reason with her in this state.

 

Arthur blinked. His vision was too blurry to really analyze too many of her features, for most of them were still hazy, but she still was radiant. Magnificent. Her eyes breached his and he swore he could have kissed her senseless right there, but even as a drunk man he wasn’t an idiot. This wasn’t the time. “Off topic, but I can’t really tell exactly what you look like, but you definitely look like a goddess.”

 

She shuddered at his affections but couldn’t help the small bit of redness to her face, and it wasn’t just a side-effect from the alcohol. “You flatter me.”

 

“It’s true, my lady.” He said rather huskily, a new tone to his voice she really hadn’t heard before. It shocked her in ways that both aroused her and terrified her at the same time. God, this was really unprofessional. “If it makes you feel any better, I fell in love when I was younger. It sucked.”

 

He said it in such a dry manner that she couldn’t help but question why. “Care to explain?”

 

Arthur chuckled, pulling her in so she could rest on his chest. She seemed tired. His arm wrapped around her shoulder, Marianne comfortably placing her head near the crook of his neck. She didn’t object. “Ah, it’s a bit… unclean. Maybe another time.”

 

“Arthur Kirkland? Unclean? _Never_.” She said with a faux surprise which earned a chuckle from the Brit who rested his head against the top of hers. His eyes began to grow heavy as the moment went on, he had been up all night that previous night due to some thoughts he probably shouldn’t have been having. Ordinary.

 

Marianne, because of her job, barely slept. She had scarcely enough to pass off as the healthy amount, getting a short three hours and twenty minutes. So when he began to drift off to sleep, it was no surprise she was as well. He was undeniably snug and perfect to rest her head, her eyes fluttering to a close as she droned into a deep sleep.

 

He wasn’t fully asleep yet when he heard minor snores from on top of him. His eyes opened, the warm bodied Parisian almost drooling on his chest. She seemed tired, nonetheless, he wasn’t surprised.  
He admired her. He slowly felt himself begin to sober up due to the slight headache he was receiving, so not excited for his morning hangover. She looked so peaceful while she slept. Her rosy, kissable lips curled up at the edges as if they were in a permanent half-smile, like she were having a good dream and you could read it from her face. In such a short time she had practically passed out, even then in a deep sleep that was hard to break even with the largest of movements.

 

He kissed the top of her head before resuming to his own attempt at sleep, which had occurred to him minutes later.

 

It didn’t take much.

 

\--

 

Alice always had this curse of walking in at the wrong moments.  
Perhaps, walking in on your brother and nurse Marianne sleeping together was one of those times.  
She had been whizzing around trying to find Marianne, however, had located her in one of the places that she didn’t especially want to look in.

 

She knew her brother’s antics.

 

At least her clothes were still on. She was thankful for that.

 

The covers weren’t on the bed, but even in her rage she had found it within herself to be kind, placing the blanket over the sleeping duo before leaving the room without a word. She tried to reason with herself that she was doing it for Arthur’s sake, not Marianne’s. Sure, she’d get fired, but she saw how happy she made him. She hadn’t seen that in him for a while.

 

However, part of her resented that.

 

The fact that she made him smile and she didn’t. He had barely seen his sister in years, and yet he was more wanting to see Marianne more than anybody else.

 

It made her especially angry that it was _her_. Out of all people.

 

There was a lot of reasons why she didn’t approve of the relationship between the two, but there was a much, much bigger reason, being something that Alice had not reconciled within herself yet.

 

Sure, she was pretentious. French. Inexperienced. Naive. Dramatic.

 

But especially, the reason why Alice begrudged them together the most was something that Alice could barely admit to herself.

 

It was because she loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur kirkland is a messy, drunk bitch i love him.


	4. how the mighty have fallen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alice is internally homophobic to herself, and as always, arthur is a mess.
> 
> marianne is also super dramatic. welcome to my ted talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY UHHH,,, THERE MIGHT BE SOME MINOR GORE IN THIS CHAPTER YOU'VE BEEN WARNED  
> also vomit? sorry guys it's a hospital what did you expect
> 
> ALSO I'M SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING FOR SUCH A LONG TIME I HAD A LOT GOING ON

When Marianne woke up that morning in her patient’s bed, there were two things that ached: her head and her heart.  
A dull nausea was what came almost directly afterwards. 

 

Did she regret what happened? Barely. She remembered most of what that night entailed and it wasn’t entirely anything that she’d have reason to self-condemn herself over.

 

Her warm blonde hair was tousled over his shoulder and in small tufts it covered his face. Light snores rippled through the room as he continued to sleep soundly, the newly risen morning sun shining through the window pane and casting a shadow on the wall behind them. His rather porcelain complexion that had become more sickly alabaster was illuminated, and Marianne slowly lifting her head to admire him. His soft green eyes were hidden behind his eyelids, with his surprisingly long wispy eyelashes curling at the edges. She could notice his freckles a bit more now, resembling more of a constellation more than anything else. They were scattered across his face, soft ivory in color, light but notable. There were hints of smile lines from the previous night, and as she rolled out of bed to clock in for her next shift, those long eyelashes of his fluttered open.

 

“Marianne?”

 

She paused. “Yes?”

 

“What time does your shift start?”

 

Her eyes darted towards the clock on the wall nearby, seeing that she was almost ten minutes late. “Seven. Why?”

 

“I hope you’re not too sick from last night. Come back in a bit, ok? I might just…” There was a sudden queasiness to his face. “It’s.. fine. Just go. Aren’t you late?”

 

Marianne tilted her head. “Yes, but, it’s rare that I‘m ever on time though.” The Parisian still had her uniform on from the previous shift, having slept in it, her hair still undone around the edges. As untidy as she was her face was still glowing in midst of the morning haze. She was so lucky to be as pretty as she was. “Don’t worry about me. However, you aren’t looking good, mon cher. I think they have some camomile downstairs, I’ll try to bring you some, ok? I’ve got some hangover cure in my backpack, but I might need some as well.” 

 

“Me? Not looking good? Never.” The trademark shit-eating grin once again returned to his face, causing the Parisian to raise a sarcastic eyebrow before heading out the door.

 

“Hang in there, monsieur.”

 

Arthur chuckled. “Hey, there, before you go--” the Briton caught her right before she left, her heels that once clanked against the floor coming to a sudden halt. “You’re quite cute when you’re sleeping.”

 

The Parisian sent him back a jokingly vexed eye-roll before heading right out the door begrudgingly down to the nurses quarters, where she’d spend the rest of her day working with a vicious headache. But once again, did she regret last night’s adventures?  
Not at all.

 

\------------------------

 

As the Parisian would occasionally clean and check up on some of her other patients, she’d cross Alice in her tracks, who’d routinely avert her eyes from her cerulean gaze when they met paths. Marianne really had no idea what else to expect from her because she was always avoiding her whenever she could, however-- there seemed to be something else that bothered her. Marianne was no stranger to reading people, especially body language. Although her words would say one things her actions would definitely say another, and it was exceptionally confusing. She didn’t know what to make it by any regard.

 

Alice, on the other hand, knew exactly why.  
Whenever she saw Marianne, she heard the soft snores against her brother’s chest, her hair tossed into a perfectly messy bun before it came untangled, and her rosy cheeks as she slept. How her back rose and fell with every breath before Alice took one look at them and walked right out the door. How their bodies were entangled in a web of unspoken affections that even with constraint the Englishwoman envied.

 

She saw the subconscious smirk on her brother’s face and his unruly antics to leave every woman he came across high and dry. She saw future tears streaming down Marianne’s face, keeping her from doing her work. The tragic goodbyes. The fragile end.

 

Deep down, even if Alice could barely even begin to recognize her actual feelings towards the woman she knew she hated, there was one thing she hated more-- the barrier she built between them.

 

She avoided her even more for a while to maybe let those memories wash over her. It scarred her to a fault, but that was what Marianne was so oblivious to, which maybe was for the best. Being on Alice’s bad side was something the Parisian was used to, anyways.

 

As much as Marianne had no regrets in regards to the previous night, she was beginning to double-think her actions. Her headache was intense, mixed with the debilitating nausea that crept on her as the day continued. She had a job to do though, so she put her current displeasure behind and put her work first.  
The hospital was almost crammed with new patients, all with different ailments. There was a man in room 403 with half of his face ripped apart, and surgeons were desperately trying everything to patch him back together. Sadly, all Marianne really could do was watch, since she was still rising up the ranks. Although, she was glad that the man was unconscious considering all the odds, it would have been unbearable pain otherwise. They scraped at the newly charred skin, sowing into his flesh.  
There went any form of lunch she would have had.

 

The sheets the man had been under were now completely drenched in blood, other nurses also trying to patch up the gaping hole in his side most likely from a bombardment. He looked like he had been practically blown to pieces.

 

The Parisian gagged, grabbing the rest of her things before scrambling towards the corridor, clutching her mouth. Her stomach rumbled, her head spinning, mixed with the sheer mental shock of what she had witnessed. She was practically sprinting towards the nearest bathroom, earning concerned looks from other nurses who had moved aside to get out of her way, planting right into the trash can.  
This sudden surge of bile that burned the back of her throat had stirred up quite a scene around her, a couple of nurses she had met through initiation coming over to pat her back and hold her hair. If anything, the other women (other than Alice, of course) had been quite amiable towards her, and she found herself grow rather close to them.

 

She waited till the urge subsided till she got back up on her feet, wiping her mouth with her sleeve before returning back towards the corridor as if nothing had happened. She was such a typical nurse, it was downright comical.  
And here’s the thing: no one was surprised.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

When Marianne went to deliver Arthur some lunch that day, she had replaced the bland cafeteria food with that of her own, some leftover bread that she kept in her bag. It was still sort of fresh, but as all things go, there was a staleness to it-- alongside some smuggled butter that was being heavily rationed. If anything, Marianne definitely was not hungry after the afternoon fiasco, so she’d much rather give it to him than anyone else. Having tasted the cafeteria food, for him, even stale bread was a blessing.

 

“Hey, Mari. How are you faring?” He greeted, sitting back up in his cushion with a stretch of his arms. He looked like he had just awaken from another nap. “Oh, food. Thank you.”

 

Marianne sighed loudly with a laugh before sitting at the foot of his bed. “I’ve had morning sickness before, but this sure takes the cake. Hangovers and surgery surely don’t mix.”

 

Arthur’s eyes widened at the fresher-looking lunch she had brought him. “Wait, wait, hold on.” He paused, pointing towards the tray. “Is that… bread? Marianne…”

 

The Parisian smiled kindly before placing the tray in his lap, brushing away some stray hairs that covered his face. The top of his head was ruffled, effortlessly soft. “It is. I thought you’d probably be sick of poorly-made soup and cabbage.”

 

His eyes twinkled as he looked up at her, a gracious smile forming on his face. He grinned smugly before taking a bite of the bread, practically melting into his seat.  
“You are an _angel_.”

 

She chuckled lightly in response, her fingers lining the hem of her dress before sitting back up. “How are you feeling, mon ami?”

 

He paused, rubbing the side of his neck. “Well, I woke up, went to sleep, woke up again, thought about life, quickly went back to sleep— and now you’re here. Pretty interesting, right?”

 

“Sounds like a blast,” the Parisian chimed in, moving over towards his side of the bed before sitting down next to him. He shifted a bit, allowing her to recline at his side and gaze up at the ceiling. Between the two of them, their proximity didn’t bother either one, Marianne resting her head on the Briton’s shoulder to get herself comfortable.

 

“I don’t remember much of last night.” Arthur stated out of nowhere, pulling a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. He held the box next to her face. “Care for one?”

 

Without any hesitation, the Parisian pulled one out as well, lighting it with the lighter in her pocket. “Merci.”

 

He reclined back against the bed frame, coughing up a bit at the smoke hitting his lungs. He caught a small flutter in his stomach at her head in his neck, lightly rubbing her leg.  
“But I do remember a couple things. You have an ex-husband and a daughter, and you’re also an emotional drunk. I’m surprised.”

 

She caught herself blushing out of sort of embarrassment. She didn’t exactly remember mentioning that at all, and it wasn’t necessarily something he needed to know.  
“I… uh, yeah. I do.” She stammered, twirling the ends of her hair that was tightly packed into a bun out of nervous habit. “Why does that matter?” 

 

“Just curious.” She answered in between puffs of his cigarette, letting it hang from the corner of his mouth. “No need to be so tense.”

 

The Parisian nodded, a comfortable silence overcoming them. The smoke left a bitter taste in her mouth but the relief was all there, the small nicotine rush coming afterwards. She had been craving it all morning, from her own lack of breaks from her shift and her now empty cartridge in her bag. As well as Arthur, Marianne didn’t remember as much as she probably should from the night before. A few tidbits here and there, like his drunken laughter, but as she tried to delve into memories and hopefully spark another one, a phrase came to mind— ‘ _I fell in love once. It sucked._ ’

 

“Hey, Arthur,” She began, turning over to face him. The rarely bashful Briton had looked down to catch her gaze, “You said you fell in love once but you never explained anything. What happened to that?”

 

He was taken aback by her unexpected statement. In fact, it took him a good couple more seconds than normal before he could collect himself, clearing his throat. “Oh, uh, yes.” He replied, shaking his head, “It’s a long story, to be honest.”

 

Marianne peered back up at him with her doe eyes. “We have time, you know. I’m on break for the next hour and a half.”

 

He sat upright a bit more, meddling with his thumbs. If anything, he fancied Marianne. He definitely didn’t feel comfortable mentioning his exes, but if she really wanted to know…

 

“When I was nineteen, I met a girl named Elizabeth Ardor. She was a mutual friend of mine who I had met while at a get-together and my family practically was already signing the marriage papers. The night I brought her home my mother was already coming up with proper baby names. I had just met the girl but I swore I loved her. She was just… gorgeous, but there was something always off, and I never really understood why. There was a barrier between us, she felt incredibly distant. When I drafted myself into the war, within a month I received a letter that she wanted to sever ties, stating that I just wasn’t enough for her. She had met a man with a proper salary working at a law firm that would be able to support her more than I could, and they would marry within a couple months. I had just come off the battlefield and read that in the barracks while quite literally I heard men being slaughtered.” He began, taking in a deep breath. “I doubt anything could get any worse than that. I spent so much time, so much money, all in the name of so-called love, and it hurt. A lot.” He took another drag before nearly banging his head against the bed frame, feeling tinge of pain in his chest.

 

Marianne sat back up from where she had been sitting to gaze up at him with a concerned gaze, frowning a bit at his story. She patted his shoulder, rubbing circles into his skin with a friendly half-smile as if to comfort him.

 

A smile crept back onto his face nonetheless. “But it’s alright. Enough about me, I guess.” He said, acknowledging her sympathy. “Anyways, what's your story?”

 

She raised a joking eyebrow. “What am I, your prison inmate?”

 

“Hey, we’re in this together.” Arthur snickered, crossing his arms. “Go on. I’m listening.”

 

Marianne sighed, “I’m feeling rather pressured, but alright.” She teased, gathering her thoughts before continuing. “I met a man named Timothé when I had just turned eighteen. He was twenty-five at the time, and worked as a connoisseur of the arts at one of the nearby museums. I was out with a couple girlfriends of mine to admire some of the new displays, when I fell down the grand staircase. He had rushed to my side, helping me back on my feet, and when I looked back up at him and thanked him, he said, ‘It’s terribly shameful of me, I apologize, it appears I have touched the artwork.’”

 

This earned a cackle by the Briton next to her. “Oh my god, he _didn’t_.”

 

“Our relationship only grew. He gave me and my friends a private tour, but as much as he looked at the artwork, he would gaze over at me even more. I was flattered, truly. He asked if there was a way he’d be able to see me again, and I told him how I lived in an apartment off the outskirts of Paris. Not even a day later he appeared at my doorstep with a bouquet of roses. I’ve never seen a man more infatuated in his entire life.” She spoke rather wistfully, looking off into space as if hypnotized. “I loved him. I really did.”

 

Arthur felt his heart break. She sounded so sincere, so wounded.

 

“He wrote me poetry. Lines and lines of poetry. I don’t have the heart to toss them. There are so many.” She found herself rather choked up, trying to swallow any hints of tears in front of him. “When I told him I was having a girl he took me to every restaurant in Paris for a whole week. He wanted to make sure our baby girl had a taste of every delicacy.”

 

Tears began to form in her glistening eyes, a small tremble in her hands. “He died a week before my daughter was due. I named her Madeline, after one of his poems. It was about how he found beauty in nature, and in prose it spoke to him under an alias: _Madeline_.”

 

The Briton was left astounded, staggered. He wanted to say something, anything, that would console her— but he knew of nothing that could ease such grief. If anything, he felt worse now, considering he began to fall for her and realized that he’d never be able to top him by any means. “Marianne… I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s… it’s alright.” She blubbered, forcing a smile to her face, sobs rippling through her like waves. It strained her throat, opening a wound that she hadn’t opened in quite some time. “I’m sorry. I need to calm down—“

 

Arthur had already wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace, swaying her softly. His head rested on the top of hers, letting her face dig into his shoulder and comfortably nestle into the hollow of his collarbone. “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay.” He patted her back, his hands running through the curls in her hair in a soothing manner. “Love, you’re fine. Don’t worry.”

 

Marianne left wet marks on the front of his hospital gown, sighing into his skin. “Thank you so much.”

 

“No problem. If it makes you any better, I lost my mother two weeks into drafting myself and heard about it a week ago. No letter or anything.” He began, rubbing circles into her back. “But it’s alright though. In a way, I was sort of expecting it. She had terminal cancer.”

 

Marianne lifted her head from his shoulder with a slight sniffle, her face puffy and rosy. Arthur took it upon himself to wipe the tears from her eyes, earning an even redder complexion from the Parisian. His thumb trailed from her cheek down to the side of her face, once again resting his chin on the top of her head. 

 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Arthur. I really am.” Her words were muffled against him, the Briton still holding onto her protectively. As much as it hurt, he didn’t want to make Marianne feel any worse-- so he put it aside. 

 

“It’s fine. Life sucks, you know?” He stated nonchalantly, taking another drag of his cigarette. “But we have each other. Some of us don’t suck, at least. You certainly don’t.”

 

“Maybe that’s the point of all of this.” Marianne interjected.

“Hm?”

 

“To find the good in the bad. Yes, things hurt. That’s a definite. However, that’s why some of us are here. To ease each other’s pain.”

 

He scoffed jokingly. “Good observation, wise one.”

 

She couldn’t help but laugh, easing the tension in the air. Maybe the redness from her face from the previous night wasn’t just the alcohol.  
He was something, surely, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Can I say anything without you making a joke?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

\--------------------

 

As the spring of 1918 grew hotter exponentially and the war seemed to grow more vicious, Marianne heard less from Laura and Madeline. The Americans were now fully involved, sending troops and aid towards Europe after being dormant for so long. If anything, the Germans were the cause of their own demise: the Zimmerman Telegram.

 

When Marianne would hear from them, though, the length of their letters would be far too long to process in such little time Marianne had. There simply wasn’t enough time to catch up on the vastly growing Madeline who had just turned eight that previous August. According to Laura, she was a firecracker: full of vigor. She still knew French and desired to speak it, but her accent had dropped significantly, sounding more North American.

 

So when one of the other messenger nurses left a letter in Marianne’s cabinet, the Parisian dropped everything before rushing towards it.

 

She grabbed the letter in her hands impatiently, rushing into a more sanctioned off area of the quarters before tearing apart the envelope. Inside was a series of different types of paper, Marianne picking the first one she noticed— in black ink pen as always.

 

“Dearest Marianne,” It began.

“The tides of the war are definitely shifting, it’s become quite noticeable. The spring air in D.C. is something to be celebrated, the winter was rather cold— but the streets, as always, are full of life. The culture here is spectacular. Just last night I took Madeline out for some dinner and the ‘jazz’ they played was so soothing and exquisite. There were dancers, too! My, the women here are so free.

Madeline just graduated from kindergarten. She’s growing up so fast! I swear it was just yesterday she was struggling to read in English. Now she writes legibly in both English and French.

I’m so proud of her, Marianne. She really looks like you, incredibly beautiful. I got some pictures taken the other day, I hope they’re to your liking.

This war better end soon. I miss you terribly. So does Madeline, she’s always asking for maman. She loves you more than anything else.

Sending all my love, Laura Peeters.”

 

Marianne’s hands trembled as she held the letter in her hands, placing it aside on the seat next to her. Attached to the letter were a couple of polaroids, some of Madeline’s drawings, and various schoolworks.

 

On one of the papers was a cherubic drawing of a blonde woman and child, both holding hands in front of what seemed to be the Eiffel Tower. In almost perfect English, scribbled onto the front, read: “To my Maman. I miss you.”

 

A dull nausea panged in the pit of her stomach.

 

Plastered in the torn envelope was another set of papers, all schoolwork from the now first grader, learning different shapes and colors. Including a quiz that Madeline took where she got a 5/5, a large smiley face drawn in red pen.  
The thought of Laura sitting down with Madeline and teaching her with various forms of flash cards suddenly had Marianne gasping for air.

 

And a picture, a Polaroid.  
A portrait of Madeline, clad in a frilly dress and pin-curls.  
Her eyes were much wider now, her once chubbier face had slimmed, the smallest hint of cheekbones. She definitely had inherited Timothe’s nose, more of a button than anything else, with small dimples in her smile. She looked like she had definitely aged a couple years-- years that Marianne didn’t get to observe. Her childhood was the most fruitful period of her life, and Marianne had been absent for part of it. She would never see when Madeline wrote her first word, or the joy in her eyes when she saw that 100% grade.  
Her first day of Kindergarten.  
_Her first day of Kindergarten_.

 

The Parisian burst into a loud sob, clutching at her chest that felt like it had sunk down into the floor. Her mind whirred, spinned, tossed and turned-- Marianne falling to her knees perpetually shattered. There is no other form of torture, no other form of agony-- than such stress of a mother. Madeline missed her dearly, and all Marianne could do was sit hundreds of miles away, while the dying became the dead. Instead of watching her child grow and grow alongside her, all she could do is hear it from first-hand accounts.

 

The loss of what could have been precious memories was a direct blow.

 

Why? Why did this war ever start, or have to begin? She could have lived peacefully with her daughter in Paris, no one to bother them. There would be no draft. All those men would have never had to die. This cursed, _wretched_ war.

 

This evil, diabolical war.

 

Men. Men in places of power used them, their suffering, their lives-- all as pawns in a game of chess. And what is its purpose? To destroy everything it touches? What were they hoping to accomplish?

 

She virtually could not fathom as to why other people could be despicable enough to desire war. War was what took her away from Madeline, and it was what ruined Arthur.  
Oh, _Arthur_.

 

He could have kept his leg. Been around to be at his mother’s dying bedside, he wouldn’t have lost the woman he thought so dearly of, and not have held a dying boy in his arms. So many people, men with stories, husbands-- they could have been spared.  
Marianne’s relationship with her daughter wouldn’t have been harmed,

 

All in the pursuit of peace. 

 

\-----------------

 

Alice had only one question on her mind as she walked into the nurse’s quarters: _where on earth was Marianne Bonnefoy_?

 

She had a patient in room 602 who was in dire need of assistance, asking the Englishwoman constantly as to where she was. Alice had to pick up where Marianne left off, just to keep her from being fired. To her, Marianne was so foolish-- skipping her duties to run off with her brother, or taking wine naps in the empty hospital beds. It just added to the list of things Alice was constantly trying to keep track of, even with a ten hour shift. The patients just kept coming and coming.

 

However, when the Englishwoman turned a corner and heard a wailing cry, there was her answer. 

 

The Parisian was pathetically in shatters, sitting away from the door and practically hidden in the corner, sulking into the shadows. At least Marianne didn’t notice her come in, because the once fuming Alice had stopped at a sudden halt, almost immediately hiding behind a series of cupboards and cubbies.  
Her internal monologue was a series of ‘oh shit’s’ as she observed the disheveled woman, eyes widening out of sheer shock. She had never witnessed such emotional pain in her entire life, you could sense her agony through the heaved breaths that rippled through her chest and her back. The woman could do nothing but watch. Every thought was riddled with uncertainty, unsure if she could console such pain. Words can never patch up such a feeling.

 

It felt like a dagger straight to Alice’s heart, tearing at the strings. Every tear that rolled down Marianne’s face felt like a blade digging to her skin, wanting nothing more but to hold her in her arms, kiss her till her lips bled--

 _Wait_.

Alice paused. This sudden surge of emotion had completely caught her off guard, causing her to almost topple over in confusion. She wasn’t supposed to be feeling these sorts of sensations, especially towards another woman. If anything, Alice at first regarded it as hidden respect under all of her emotional guarding, but nothing… _romantic_.  
Until she remembered Marianne with her hair down, sleeping soundly in an empty hospital bed.  
How her lips were a perfect shade of red, puckered just slightly out of subconscious habit, in an almost perfect pout. They were naturally plump, bringing her whole face together symmetrically, her eyes opening just slightly to peer up at the woman in the doorframe.  
They glistened with a certain grogginess that sleepily fluttered back to close once again, her long eyelashes resting on her lower lid, long and wispy. A natural form of angelic that had the Englishwoman both flustered and amazed at the same time, like gazing at a piece of artwork.  
When Alice first took one sight of her on the first day of initiation, how her cap was adorably slanted out of inexperience-- small bits of her bun sticking out. Alice offered her assistance, pulling her hair tightly in uniformity. How soft her blonde locks were against her calloused hands, like silk, and how she wanted to tangle her fingers in between. Her accent on the tip of her tongue, how it harmonized with her own, passionate and soothing.

 

She shook her head. Her heart began to gush, like the opening of a dam without her control. 

 

When Marianne would roll her eyes at the Englishwoman, there was always a sense of tension. The way she’d grumble. Her voice would raise, and Alice wanted nothing more than in that moment, shove her up against the wall and have her wicked way--

 

‘Alice. No.’  
She practically gasped out loud. She had no idea she felt this way, with such intensity. God, she was going to hell for this.

 

There was no way this was even legal. Marianne was an illegal substance to Alice, tempting-- but very, very illegal. If she even dared showed any signs of what she was experiencing she’d get sent off in a heartbeat. No one would presume even a look in her direction, the other nurses included. She’d lose her job, her everything.

 

It was at that moment where Alice realized she had never had those same affections towards a man by any regards.

 

The realization shocked her definitely, but also terrified her in many different senses. She’d never be able to love and be loved, especially in the social climate that they were currently in.  
In that moment Alice felt horribly, terribly alone.

 

It festered. Her hands became numb, shortness of breath. Alice was in love with Marianne,  
and there was nothing Alice could do.

 

She would never be able to settle down in a happy household with children and be truly satisfied. There would always be a piece that clung onto her love for women— oh god.  
She felt like a freak of nature.

 

She leaned against the wall, feeling a pit of bile rise up in her throat. This couldn’t be happening. Not by any stance.  
She sat uncomfortably on the floor, trying to control her hitching breath that uncontrollably heaved. Her vision blurred, making it hard to comprehend anything around her.  
The still sounds of the weeping Marianne had triggered a series of palpitations where Alice felt vulnerable, defenseless.

 

Alice Kirkland, now to her knowing, was a full blown lesbian in a world so unforgiving, so loveless— ignorant. She wanted to cry and scream out to the high heavens, as if to ask— “ _why_?”  
Why had God made her like this?

 

She wanted to accept herself,  
but it was 1918.

 

Whenever she closed her eyes she envisioned the gaze of Marianne staring right back at her. She melted in these affectionate scenes, letting herself go-- for no one but Alice could see her thoughts. If Alice could never have her in the first place, at least she had her in her mind. In her eyes she curled up alongside the Parisian, her fingers tracing the small dip in her hip, the soft rays of sunlight embracing just the two of them. The luminescence never discriminates, and it welcomes them in open arms as just two lovers, nothing more than pure bliss. How she craved her touch. She embraced the warmth of wine still in the pit of her heart as if it were to resemble the soft, fuzzy feeling of her eyelashes against her skin, and the domestic joy in between her thighs.  
She never understood as to why love was so controversial, so jarring-- as if it were some kind of evil. When Alice thinks of Marianne there is no malice left, just her still beating heart. It was as if Alice wearing Marianne’s garments while the Parisian made breakfast was some sort of sapphic sin. The idea of them living together in a small cottage with fresh soup and bread had tears running down Alice’s face.  
It was a dream that she knew was impossible. There is nothing more devastating.

 

Marianne’s voice resembled the sound of the harmonic acoustic guitar to her ears, and she desired it being sung against her neck. Alice wanted nothing else other than the end of this godforsaken war, but it was at this moment something else came to mind, having the Englishwoman incredibly flustered.

 

But as these visions continued she felt her brother’s breath against the back of her neck. She knew one thing for sure: Marianne fancied him, and Arthur fancied her. She had never seen her brother look so alive even in such a state, he gazed at her with a newfound twinkle in his eye that both dizzied and dumbfounded Alice at the same time. She made him so happy, so very happy. Elizabeth never stood a single chance.  
Perhaps since Alice couldn’t have her, he could. If anything, the state of her brother meant a lot to her, and if it helped Marianne out of her current state Alice would never object.

 

When Marianne’s cries gradually diminished to a halt, Alice hurried to the exit of the nurse’s quarters, watching from behind the doorframe as Marianne washed her face and gazed at her messied self in the mirror. Her eyes were so sunken, defeated-- it caused Alice’s heart to sink completely into her chest. She observed as the solemn Parisian placed the letters back into her cubby, standing in the middle of the room, before resuming towards the exit door. Marianne tried her best to collect herself, pretend as if she hadn’t just been violently sobbing for the past twenty-minutes, Alice’s heart beating rather fast as the aroma of fresh lavender and sanitizer wafted by. Alice remained hidden though, until Marianne passed over, causing the Englishwoman to helplessly stammer.

 

“Wait, Marianne--”

 

Marianne’s head whipped around to meet eyes with the Englishwoman, tilting her head curiously. Alice’s gaze did not seem cold in any regard, in fact, it was amiable. Something incredibly new to the Parisian due to Alice’s usual nature.  
When Alice got Marianne’s attention, she had forgotten to anticipate as to why she acquired her concern in the first place. 

 

“What is it?” Marianne asked sort of tentatively, expecting some outburst from the Englishwoman as to why she wasn’t doing her job.

 

Alice didn’t say anything else. In adrenaline and sudden unexpected confidence, she wrapped her arms protectively around the Parisian. Due to the height difference her head dug into Marianne’s shoulder, squeezing her tightly. Marianne was truly baffled, raising an eyebrow in suspicion, before melting into the embrace. She hugged her back, letting them sway for quite some bit until Marianne pulled away.

 

“What…?” She looked rather confused, questioning Alice’s antics.

 

Alice felt a rush of heat to her face. “Hang in there, okay?”

 

Marianne would have never predicted this sort of kindness from a woman who she had feared to such an extent due to her harsh temper and known hatred. It befuddled her greatly as to what reason there was such an abrupt change, but she wasn’t going to question it. With that she sent a small nod and smile Alice’s way, continuing off to room 204.

 

Alice recognized her trail towards her brother’s room, and knew exactly why. But as it was the thought didn’t hurt as bad anymore.

 

Being happy for the two of them was the only thing she could really do.  
Bittersweet as it was, Alice was content.  
She at least left knowing more about herself that she would have never anticipated.

 

That’s all that mattered to the Englishwoman.

 

\---------------

 

A couple days had passed, but every day that Marianne procrastinated to write back to her family in the Americas seemed like an eternity. There was nothing other than hardship that she really could write about, as if Laura would want to know about the atrocities she’d have to witness day by day. Just yesterday she had to help Alice with an amputation, which wasn’t exactly pleasant per say, but she’d notice that every time her hand would absent-mindedly brush against hers, Alice looked like she was practically jumping out of her skin. Marianne was so very confused. One minute the Englishwoman was affectionate, jokingly sweet and calm, and next moment she was chewing her out in the hallway. She was almost feline in a way. Marianne was hesitant around her, you really had no idea which side of the coin you were going to get.

 

Arthur would only drink more as the days passed. His addiction was surely getting out of control, and Marianne had no idea where he was getting it from. He said he had “connections”, but even then it sounded rather suspicious. Marianne had intended to ask, but kept forgetting to. Whenever the Parisian would check up on Arthur he always had some sort of flask on him, whether it be scotch or beer. In his drunken state he’d always joke with her and his attraction, which she would only see as just another inebriated joke, but it began to creep on her gradually.

 

“You look effortlessly radiant, my love.” He said once out-of-the-blue as she brought him lunch, earning an honest blush.

 

The part of her that still clung to her husband began to dim. As much as she’d refer to him usually in the present tense in her mind, it was becoming more and more in the past when she’d look at him.  
God, this was getting out of hand, and really unprofessional.

 

She’d walk in a room and his posture would definitely change. It was quite obvious her effect on him, because his eyes would brighten and his smirk would nonetheless remain on his face with his ever-so present sarcasm. Per usual.

 

They’d pass the night together, Marianne deciding on not to reside back into her apartment just to wake up early once again and take the morning commute, which wasn’t her favorite pastime. His bed, even for being a scratchy hospital mattress, was surprisingly comfortable. At the moment, his arms were her most favorite place to be, and Marianne was surprised he wasn’t pulling any moves on her considering what was his track record, as he mentioned previously.

 

However, a couple days after the amputation, there was an uneasy silence that wafted around the hospital. The only noise that would occasionally pass through was the footsteps of stretcher bearers and humming from the cleaning ladies. The place looked so barren, creepily empty. You could practically hear a pin drop, which was completely rare for a hospital so bustling with new patients.

 

As she haunted across the desolate hallways of her workplace she couldn’t help but have him cross her mind ever so often. Sometimes he’d fall asleep while she was still awake, and she’d listen to the small hints of a snoring and sleep-talking per usual. He’d mumble subconsciously in his sleep about random topics, passing bits of dialogue. Marianne found it rather adorable, his hair being swept across his face. One night as she tried to sleep he’d whisper small little nothings, such as, “hey, pass the salt.” and “please.” She’d giggle lightly and whisper back, having conversations with him even in his sleeping state.

 

“Here’s the salt, mon cher.” She had replied, pretending to know as to what he was dreaming about.

 

He’d shift. “Thank you, love. Don’t let the baker find out.”

 

“Who’s the baker?”

 

“You needn’t not know, he doesn’t like it.” His brows furrowed. 

 

That previous morning she had asked him just as he woke up as to what that dream was about, and all he replied with was some sort of shrug. “I don’t really know what goes in my mind, Marianne.”

 

She caught herself laughing at the memory as she walked down the corridor, her gaze soft and wistful. She had grown quite fond of him as time went on, finding it harder and harder to pry away from his room in between shifts. He was so easy to talk to, even if he was such a rascal. It was endearingly annoying. 

 

She was anticipating another afternoon of shared smuggled glasses of wine and discussion of whatever had crossed their minds. They’d often bounce off each other with bits of prose and try to create stories in their free time, something to pass along and keep each other going. He’d usually be asleep around this time, but he had always mentioned that he would much rather see her than take another nap, so she could just wake him up whenever. She’d wake him with a platonic kiss to his forehead, even if they both knew there was a small hint of unspoken affection involved. She really wouldn’t know how she’d still be here without him and Isabel. They were her foundations through it all.

 

When Marianne told him about the letter from Madeline, he didn’t let go of her for a solid thirty minutes. That was when Marianne began to sort of know how she felt about him, much to his oblivion. Arthur still thought she loved her husband, which of course she did and always would, but he slowly began to clog her mind.

 

When she turned a corner around where his room was, she was hit with the sudden noise of chaos, all centered around where his room was. When she realized there were at least five doctors circling around his bed, she practically sprinted into the room.

 

“Oh my god, is he alright?!” She exclaimed, already panicking. He seemed fine this morning, what had changed it so quickly? She was virtually on the verge of tears.

 

Mr. Montclaire had been standing at the foot of his bed. “We aren’t sure. Marianne, do you mind waiting outside, please? It’s getting quite crowded.”

 

She peered over at Arthur who appeared unconscious, ghostly white. Her head spun in intense anxiety.  
She couldn’t lose him.

 

“ _No_. He’s my patient, remember?” She snapped, her pupils wobbling in tremendous fear. “I’m staying right here. Why can’t you figure it out?” She barked, her hands already trembling in rage.

 

Mr. Montclaire sighed. “There seems to be now active symptoms that correlate to any one reason in particular. You need to leave. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

 

Marianne caught her anger welling up in her throat. Mr. Montclaire was the most inexperienced man to be handling such a case, and the man she loved was nearly on his deathbed. How even dare he? It was at this moment Marianne realized she needed one woman in particular. The Parisian was surprised at her absence, it was her own brother after all. After storming out of the room, she rushed down the corridor, hair bouncing with every step-- practically fuming. You could feel the heat radiate off her skin, and the ample nervousness running through her veins.

 

She knew that Alice’s lunch break was at this time, and she knew exactly where to find her. She was an isolate woman, so she’d probably be in the most sanctioned off area of the hospital: the supply room. She had found her eating lunch there on multiple occasions, and when Marianne would ask, all Alice would say in return would be: “Why do you care, frog?”

 

So that’s exactly where Marianne went first, and of course, as predicted, there she was-- stuffing her face with homemade potato salad.  
With her unexpected presence, the Englishwoman began to choke, coughing up a few times in surprise before catching her breath. Her eyes widened as she noticed the state she was in, tears already rolling down Marianne’s face as she shook right in front of her.  
“Oh, hello… why are you here?” She spoke hesitantly, slowly putting her bowl down with a tilt of her head.

 

It took all the strength Marianne possessed to collect herself. Her breath was still heaving from all the running she did down the corridors, full of adrenaline. Her eyes averted towards the floor in a certain form of dismissal that had Alice both confused and concerned.  
“Marianne, spit it out already. What’s going on?”

 

Marianne took a deep, bitter breath, swallowing down hard. It was as if her tongue was bound in chains, unable to form any sort of words. Her mouth was left open in shock, meeting her gaze. “We don’t have much time.” She whimpered vaguely, clasping her hands together.

 

Alice furrowed her brows in frustration. “Jesus christ, Marianne. What are you talking about!?”

 

Marianne sighed, as if releasing a long, pent up breath.  
“Come quick. It’s Arthur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T WORRY ALICE ISN'T GOING TO BE A LONELY LESBIAN, I PROMISE. JUST YOU WAIT. IT'S TWENTY GAYTEEN.
> 
> sorry for the cliffhanger oops!


	5. the price of silence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we learn more about people with the words that they don't say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS GETS REALLY SAUCY GOOD LUCK
> 
> i finally updated yay!!

Alice had never switched from two emotions so fast in her entire life. In one fell swoop she went from mostly calm to in the midst of a harsh panic that gripped onto her chest almost instantly. It was an animalistic instinct, in a way. Alice swiftly jumped to her feet, discarding her potato salad that in that moment, she had disregarded completely. All Alice heard was ‘Arthur,’ before she stiffly began to dash out of the supply closet and down the hallway.

Marianne stood in her wake, her mind blank. There was a certain sensation of fuzziness that went to her extremities, hearing the calamity of Alice shoving anybody that stood in her way as she virtually sprinted. There was an audible chaos, the once deafening silence drowned out by the immense density to the air.

Instead of rushing, Marianne had already lost too much energy, walking solemnly in the path that Alice had weaved in front of her towards Arthur’s room. By now, the number of doctors in the vicinity had doubled, all investigating his case. There was no sign of fever, no sign of trauma-- just a sickening complexion and pale lips. Alice’s heart dropped right into the pit of her stomach at the sight, clutching her chest.

“What happened to him?” she exclaimed.

There was an eerie silence once again as the doctors continued to examine him. “It appears something must have conflicted with his medicine. However, we don’t exactly know what. It seems that his body is going into shock. We need an IV, stat.”

Marianne stood by the doorframe, visually apprehensive. She desired to watch but her trembling hands hadn’t ceased, all she could do was listen. Her pupils wobbled as tears puddled into her eyes, the world dizzying around her. In that moment all she could feel was fear.

“What exactly do you think it is?” One of the doctors had asked inquisitively, poking at his skin which was breaking into a cold sweat. Definitely not a good sign. Arthur had grown unresponsive to any of the pricking and prodding of the doctors, lying there like some sort of limp mass of flesh. “I mean, what could have done something like this? It’s not like we’ve been giving him anything that would be responsible for this kind of reaction.”

The floor had given way under Alice’s feet, feeling like she had just been dropped from the ground into a sinkhole underneath the tiles, swallowing hard.

“The only thing that’s coming to mind is alcohol, or any sort of substance of that kind, but I honestly doubt it would even be able to get in here--”

“It was me.”  
Alice didn’t have much time to think before she practically tossed herself under the bus.

Marianne, who had been eavesdropping behind the door, almost dashed herself into the room before her sleeve had been tugged on by Isabel.  
“Marianne, come on, I’m taking you downstairs.”  
The Spaniard pulled her off to the side with a bit of a struggle, Marianne reluctantly fighting being dragged away from the scene she was so desperate to observe.  
She couldn’t let her do this.

Alice knew all but well what Marianne and Arthur were up to behind closed doors. When Alice would come to check up on her brother she’d always notice a small hint of whiskey on his breath, her first thought being that Marianne was responsible. But there was no way in hell she was letting her take the blame for this. She had enough pain in her life, as Alice could tell, and losing her job would spiral her into an even more intense depression. 

“Excuse me?” Mr. Montclaire had raised an eyebrow at the Englishwoman, who apprehensively continued. 

“It was me.” She stated firmly, as if gripping the end of a sharp rope. “I gave him the alcohol.”

The long pause pursued. Mr. Montclaire’s eyes trailed from Alice towards the other doctors with a minor shrug, both sides equally as confused. She was a quaint, tiny woman— an obedient disposition, the last person you’d expect. One of the doctors raised a dark eyebrow, pursing his lips.

“You do realize there’s no substances like that allowed in this room, correct?”

Alice nodded sheepishly, lowering her head. She’d take a bullet for Marianne. As much as this could potentially ruin her entire career, it was needed to be done.

The doctor motioned her towards the door. “I think that’s your cue to leave.”

With her tail between her legs, the Englishwoman made her way towards the door, stopping before she walked through the frame.  
“Is he going to be alright?” She asked, meddling with her thumbs.

“Maybe if you didn’t break the rules we’d be able to tell you.” One of her supervisors interjected, clearly vexed. “Leave. We’ll discuss this later.”

Averting her gaze in shame, she walked out the door and closed it behind her, feeling intermittent guilt wash over her. As much as she wasn’t at fault at all, she still felt responsible— she was still supposed to be watching over Marianne. Why hadn’t she stopped her? When Arthur had been hungover for an entire day, why wasn’t that a red flag?

Now it would quite possibly cost him his life.

She ventured off back towards the supply closet, hoping that maybe if she isolated once again, she could pretend that the world had stopped spinning. Perhaps Arthur would be given a second chance. However, his fate was sadly not in her hands.

\-----------------------

For a while, there was nothing else in the entire universe that didn’t revolve around Arthur Kirkland.  
Marianne had never been impacted so strongly by silence before. 

The staleness of the air filled the Parisian’s nostrils. When she’d inhale sharply and try to soothe the nausea she felt it only began to creep back seconds later, getting worse by the minute. There was a gaping, dull wound in her chest, an unavoidable pang that seemed to simmer in the pit of her stomach.  
The thought of him burned like a hot knife.  
It was like a recurring nightmare, the kind you couldn’t shake off. She’d close her eyes occasionally to try to let the dread subside but it never did, so instead she found comfort underneath the freshly cleaned sheets of an empty hospital bed and a newly lit cigarette. She’d do this often-- passing away breaks dozing off in unused rooms, trying to get some energy back before she proceeded with her shift. However, this time was different: she could never sleep in this state. Her body was frozen in a cold sweat and her palms were just as clammy, an anxiety-induced fever that spread throughout her whole body. Her eyes hung low, the once bright irises full of life had now been drained to almost nothing.  
‘This is why I swore not to fall in love again.’ She thought.

To Marianne, love was such a beautifully fragile thing-- but so, so destructive. One morning she swore she could have kissed him, his gaze entangled in hers, making some off-hand comment about how alive she made him feel. How he was so lucky, so very lucky, to have met such a wonderful friend.  
_Friend._  
The word both flattered her and wounded her at the same time. She desired to touch him senseless until he could no longer use the word-- make him forget that they had ever been anything less than lovers. 

Then she remembered: there was a high possibility she’d never have the chance ever again.

How she regretted ever guarding herself, pushing him away. He loved her, it was obvious, yet she never let him under her shell. She never told him that she felt the same, and now maybe he’d never know. God, she fucked up.

She craved his cradling arms, how she’d wake up every morning in his warmth surrounding her. It was therapeutic, in a way, knowing that no matter what happens throughout the day there was always one constant in her life-- sleeping in his bed. She was surprised no one else but Alice had found out about it, considering how long it went on for. When Isabel would sometimes sit in on their conversations during lunch breaks and bond with the two of them, the Spanish woman stated that she’d never seen a man with as much emotion in his eyes when he looked at her. Apparently, it was like a silent confession. Marianne never forgot about it, and when she went to sleep beside him the next night, she felt an electricity to the air.  
She loved him. She loved him, she loved him, she loved him.  
She wanted to scream it towards the rooftops and down the streets, through the paper-thin hospital walls. The whole world had to know.  
She wanted flowers to bloom in her mouth as she formulated the words. She desired to watch the grey skies turn blue again, bringing back humanity in her steps. This war couldn’t tear her away from him. 

“Marianne, are you alright?”  
A voice interrupted her thoughts. It was almost like divine intervention, her head turning to face the origin of which, staring into a familiar set of eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Marianne sighed, smoke wafting from her lips.

Alice’s gaze was heavy, smiling nervously at her before nestling herself under the covers the hospital bed, next to the Parisian. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Marianne’s eyes hardened, crossing her arms. When she turned to face her, a scowl sharpened her features, remembering as to why she was mad at her in the first place. “You are so stupid, Alice.”

The Englishwoman was dumbfounded. “Excuse me?”

“You could lose your job, your everything. You didn’t need to protect me, you had nothing to deal with it.” Marianne’s tone was stern, serious. “Don’t ever take the blame for me ever again.”

It took Alice a couple of seconds to process what she had said, blinking rapidly. She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that she had done something so nice for her and this was the reaction she was getting. “I’m… sorry, _what_? Excuse me?”

“I said,” Marianne’s face inched towards hers in a way that was less romantic, but more so to assert aggression. “Don’t _ever_ take the blame for me ever again.”

Needless to say, this extremely flustered her. It took every nerve in Alice’s body not to lean in closer and connect the space between them, but she of course restrained herself. Swallowing down hard, she furrowed her brows, crossing her arms. “Jee, you’re welcome.”

Marianne pulled away, gazing back off into space with the cigarette still hanging in her mouth, coughing up quite a bit. She really had nothing else to say, silence filling the void between them. 

In between the awkward silence Alice found herself rather troubled. Marianne didn’t seem the type of woman to discriminate, being rather welcoming and open-minded. Also, it wasn’t just a coincidence that she had leaned in so close… Even with how aggressive Alice would be on her bad days, Marianne would just take it-- not desiring to fight back. Alice didn’t understand: if she didn’t love her back, why did she handle it so well?

“Marianne.” Alice choked out without any form of second thought.

“What is it?”

Alice wasn’t expecting to get this far. It was as if her own throat was seizing upon itself, her mind twisting and churning. She was either going to be the happiest woman alive, or have her entire identity ripped apart from her, stealing everything good from her life.  
It had to be done.

“What are your thoughts on… homosexuals?”

Marianne seemed taken aback by such a question, seemingly out of the blue. However, her confused expression seemed to soften as a realization washed over her.  
“Ah, I mean… I personally don’t have any problem with it. If you love someone, you chase it, you know?”

It was as if the gates of heaven had suddenly opened. Such an opinion was rare to find at such a time, her heart racing in her chest.

“Why do you ask?”

This was it. This was her moment. She could have easily just let it slip as if it were nothing, to be cool about it. Marianne would say she loved her back and slip her fingers into Alice’s hair, pulling her into a loving embrace-- the world would stop, her mind would settle, and for once, everything would be okay in the world.

“I… no reason.”

But not today.  
Marianne raised an eyebrow before looking away, resuming her gaze towards the window. It was a surprisingly sunny day, as if the gloom had been erased from the skies. It was distracting.  
And in that moment, Alice slipped her way out of the room in silence, not finding any reason to continue.  
She had her chance, and she blew it.

Maybe she’ll never be happy.

\--------------------------------

 

Marianne hadn’t noticed Alice’s absence for a long time, understanding the silence between them.  
Of course. Alice loved her.  
It really wasn’t that hard to notice: Marianne truly had a second sense, regardless of gender.  
She had confirmed it at the hug. Did she say anything? No. Her questioning on whether she accepted who she was was the frosting on the cake. She’d keep her mouth shut, though, the world was an unforgiving place. She knew to some extent of what that felt like.

It was the Summer of 1910.  
She was on the eve of seventeen, soft dusk breeze against her ankles, spending her last night as a remaining teenager into her springing adulthood on a balcony in the south of France. She remembered that night so vividly-- one of her oldest friends had insisted on going out for a night on the town, even if it wasn’t entirely legal (curfew was still enforced) and the men were dogs, hungry scoundrels aiming for any sense of vulnerability that would normally appear to them in the form of young women.  
That didn’t stop them.  
Agathe, her closest friend growing up, knew of a place down the road that was open at night and welcomed women. Getting there was the issue, however, crossing by some dodgy men and hiding behind whatever was nearest in order to be undetected by police was all that arose-- managing to get there safely.  
As they snuck into the bar and got their hands on some cheap wine, her cerulean eyes fell on a woman across the bar, causing her to take a double look.  
She was this perfect mix of tan and porcelain, gold and ivory, a gaze that was both heavy and light. Her hair was dark and so were her eyes, large in size, honey in color as the light fell upon them. Her cheeks were of a fine rosiness that resembled cherries, with a beauty-mark directly beside her left eye. Her nose was small, fine, pointed upwards. Her cheekbones hollowed inwards alongside her collarbones, her hair tousled into curls that framed her face, short in length but wavy.  
Her gaze was caught, her eyes inviting-- tempting. It was as if this lady was just as curious, honey eyes trailing up and down her form leaving Marianne rather flustered for many different reasons.

“Marianne?” Agathe inquired, tapping her arm to expel her out of her trance. Her expression was wary, peering off to the side to catch a glimpse of what had drawn her attention. She raised an eyebrow. “Is that… Elaine?”

 _Elaine_. Her name was Elaine.  
Beautiful.

“Who is she?” Marianne questioned, moving her fixed gaze back over to her drink, attempting to maintain her composure. For the first time, Marianne appeared bashful, which wasn’t entirely normal, she had never been one to be shy. 

“She’s the wife of Commander Delacroix. I’m guessing he doesn’t know of her… _hobbies_.” Agathe sipped her wine surreptitiously, keeping her voice down. Marianne seemed confused, tilting her head.

“Hobbies?”

“Let’s just say she doesn’t leave much up to speculation.”

The Parisian raised an eyebrow, curious as to what that meant.

After Agathe had left and Marianne insisted on staying for a couple more drinks, getting eyed at suspiciously from her friend in concern, Elaine had sauntered over, drink in hand, as if drawn over by a force of gravity. Marianne’s face reddened in return, sparking up conversation with a simple, “Bonjour.”  
Elaine’s french was silkier than what was normalized, enchanting in ways that Marianne couldn’t quite understand. She was tantalizing, charismatic-- she could practically sell water to a fish if given reason. Sparks encircled them, their conversation fiery and passionate over various topics such as politics, money and love.  
Marianne was perplexed on behalf of having matched almost instantly. What was Agathe so cautious about?

It occurred to her hours later, after Elaine had offered to walk her home due to her slight inebriation. Marianne took that as a show of friendship-- an act of respect, nothing more than platonic. However, when she pushed her up against the wall after Marianne’s hand brushed against hers, the Parisian couldn’t help but oblige. It wasn’t as if she were to disagree, in any regard.

It wasn’t entirely common for women to have extra-marital affairs, or kiss other women in alleyways, especially if you’re in your late twenties and your person of interest was just turning seventeen. But did Marianne complain? Most definitely not.  
Her first kiss was a twenty-eight year old woman behind a bar after curfew.  
“I want to see you again.” Marianne had cooed, in between soft sighs-- hand brushing against the side of her face.  
This was forbidden. More than forbidden. In the eyes of the state this was a heinous crime, punishable by death. Elaine was a forbidden fruit that Marianne desperately wanted to taste, both literally and figuratively.

Elaine had kissed the corner of her lip, her other hand trailing up her dress. “I’m afraid that might get messy, _mon coeur_.”

“I don’t care.” Marianne had moaned into her palm, passing into submission-- letting the endorphins wash over.  
In that moment, she swore she fell in love. Or what she thought was love.

They planned to meet the next day knowing her husband was away on another trip of his, the Parisian having told her mother she was out with Agathe again on another shopping spree that she’d have to explain later, one foot out the door already.  
Her house wasn’t too far, biking distance, riding through the city and through the outskirts to a grand villa on the bottom of a hill, overlooking the river.

Over brunch, the two sat rather close in proximity, Marianne’s hand resting on her knee.  
The two exchanged laughs, drank wine and shared smiles. It wasn’t too early to say that the Parisian was head over heels, even only have met her the previous night-- but of course with the circumstances they were faced with, she held it in tight-lipped secrecy.  
After the highs had worn off and a silence had filled the space in between, Marianne posed a question that could either make or break their current disposition:  
“Why exactly… are you doing this? I mean, does your husband know?”

Elaine was caught off guard, of course, putting down her glass of wine to peer over at her in surprise. “Of course he doesn’t, are you kidding? I’d get arrested in a heartbeat.” She spoke sincerely, appearing almost saddened. “I didn’t marry out of love, you know. It was all orchestrated by my mother: ‘if you marry the admiral’s son maybe you’d be able to afford dinner tonight!’” She mocked, laughing as if to hide the dark undertone to her words. “He was the admiral’s son who later became a commander, of course that was a jackpot to my mother. All the while I was dating a woman. _Was_.”

Marianne couldn’t help but chuckle. “So you don’t love him at all?”

She laughed intently. “Oh honey, no. We’re both cheating on each other. I’m the biggest lesbian you’ll ever meet, and he feels more like a brother than anything.”

With a sip of her wine, Marianne nodded, listening to everything she had to say. The thing was, Marianne loved listening to her talk. Perhaps that was just one of the reasons she liked her so much.

Time passed. Marianne finished the shrimp scampi Elaine had whipped up and they sat underneath the awning to her porch, on the backyard steps. The trees whistled in the wind, Elaine’s hair blowing slightly to the side, Marianne’s hair strategically placed in a bun. Before it became a trademark of hers she normally would wear her hair down until it became a necessity.  
The house was quiet. She had explained how she normally has a couple servants but she sent them off on vacation, allowing her some alone time. ‘I can clean up after myself, you know. Sadly, he can’t.’ She had said, referring to her husband that she said many _nice_ things about.

The two exchanged a comfortable silence. Marianne’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her in securely as if to provide protection. They were in their own little world, a secluded manor off the outskirts of the city-- no one to bother them. However, they needed protection, knowingly scarce: the world was a frightening place, especially to those who decide not to fit in the accepted mold.

Hearing a bit of laughter from the next house over, from most likely a party of some sorts, Marianne recoiled her arm, only for Elaine to gently hold her wrist.  
“Marianne, look at me.” Elaine breathed, faces so close-- barely any room. “We’re safe.”

“What if they see us?”

Elaine held Marianne by the chin, tilting up her head to peer directly into her eyes. “We’re alone. And besides, so what if they see us: I’m not apologizing for loving you.”

The Parisian had never kissed another human being so hard before. The two entangled in a web of limbs, being pressed against the wooden floor, almost seconds before they were bare, the breeze against their skin.

Love was fluid to Marianne regardless of shape, size, color, gender. Love had never had a label for her, as both beautiful and terrifying it was to Marianne, she rejoiced it-- held it dear. She understood what it meant, and knew she wasn’t alone, as tight-lipped as she was about it. Elaine was her first love, but of course it didn’t last-- the commander’s wife had other plans.  
She realized it was a hobby of hers, leading on the hearts of young girls, getting their hopes up.  
Agathe had warned her.  
However, it wasn’t just a coincidence Timothe came into her life almost a year afterwards, changing everything she knew about love in a variety of ways.

“Marianne?” Interjected a voice from behind the door.

“Come in.”

\-----------------------------------

Mr. Montclaire had been anxiously waiting before he appeared in the doorframe, apprehensive-- his hands were shaking with what he thought was a not noticeable anticipation, which Marianne saw through right away. “May I have a word?”

She rolled her eyes. What a silly expression, she thought, there is no way you could own a word. He was so entitled, thinking he could own everything, even words-- like she would desire to hear his. Oh, how badly did she want to say no. “You may.” She said, as if to disregard her own intrusive thoughts.

He cleared his throat as if to gather himself. “Your patient in room 204’s vitals are back up. What happened was unprofessional of Alice, I’m sorry she could have sabotaged your work.”

His reconciliation was incredibly false, she could practically smell it off of him. He was hiding something.  
She withheld her urge to run into his room, it taking every nerve in her body as she got back to her feet. “Thank you for your recompense.” She spoke in a monotonous tone, devoid of any emotion. She hid any sort of feelings she might have expressed which may arise any sort of un-professional speculation. She prides herself on behalf of her poker-face.

Halfway out the door, she paused, narrowing her eyes.  
“Wait, Montclaire?”

“Yes?” 

She anticipated whatever was coming, whether it was good or bad. It had to be either of which, and there was a higher probability of the latter. She swallowed down hard, exhaling. “He was my patient. Alice threw herself under the bus for me, and it had nothing to do with her. I drank with him.” She began, hearing her heart beat rapidly in her ears, “He needed a friend and I gave it to him. I let him drink, supervised and unsupervised, going against my code of conduct. If you’re going to fire anybody today, let it be me.”

He seemed utterly perplexed. The trembling in his hands did not cease, in fact, it merely multiplied, a minor wobble of his pupils. Her theory of his own secrecy only became stronger. What exactly was he hiding, and how would she get it out of him?

He didn’t respond.

“Montclaire? Hello?”

He shook himself out of his own trance, snapping back to his senses. “I… wow. Wasn’t expecting that.”

Marianne placed her hand on her hip. “What’s your prerogative?”

Once again, he cleared his throat. “I’ll have to discuss this with my superiors. I’d hate to have to fire you.”

“What do you mean by that?”  
This was already putting a bad taste in her mouth.

“It would just be… frightful not having you around. You lighten up the place, madame.” He took her hand in his, about to place a kiss upon the top of her palm before she quickly pulled it away in clear disgust.

Marianne, although, had to keep her composure. “Sir, this is unprofessional.”

His eyes flickered with a sense of uncertainty, as if he remembered something that clearly bothered him-- a mistake of sorts. She could tell by the soft sigh he gave afterwards, rubbing the back of his neck. It was either he was bashful at his own rejection, or something else.  
She could recognize a foolish man. That was a hobby of hers.  
Yes, most signs pointed to that, the downfall of a man’s pride, however-- there was something else hidden under all of what he thought was chivalry, humility.  
He managed a sort of half-smile, removing his hand to pull it behind his back. The breath that had once been against the top of her hand reeked of sherry, or some sort of rum-- she forgot. But in no way was it not alcoholic of some sort. It was common of him. “My apologies, miss.”

She scoured her memory for any sort of hints, any sort of evidence against him. There was no way this wasn’t some form of coincidence.  
But then again, a once mystery had crossed her mind. One that she had suppressed into a seperate corner of her mind after all the commotion, one that definitely left her hanging.  
Who exactly was giving Arthur Kirkland the alcohol?

It hit her. A conspiracy of sorts, one most plausible answer:  
Mr. Montclaire himself.

The French woman upon this realization left no silence to the air once again: breaking it as soon as she could, thinking that if she didn’t, he’d take this as an invitation to leave.  
“May I ask you something?”

He smiled faintly. “Go ahead, dearie.”

She scowled with intent, eyes as cold as ice.  
“You gave him the alcohol, didn’t you.”

If there had been a glass in his hand (which, in this case, when wasn’t there?), by no doubt would it have been dropped to the floor. He stiffened profusely, eyes widening in both shock and confusion that had appeared on his face in one swift motion, a couple of words.  
Words were so powerful, weren’t they?  
“I… sorry?”

Crossing her arms, her eyes never lifted off of him. “You gave him the alcohol. How did all the flasks in his room just appear out of thin air, hm? He said he had _connections_ , all signs point to you.”  
By being a bitch, she could piss him off. Pissing him off means she could lose her job, which she was already at risk of losing anyways-- she had nothing to lose any longer.

He struck her as a deer in the headlights, eyes wide, tail in between his legs. He seemed defenseless, afraid. He deserved to be feeling what he felt, if in any case she was correct.  
He knew it would kill him and knew exactly what he was doing.

His silence said everything and more.  
Anger bubbled up and festered, welled up in her throat. At first she had no idea how to handle it, whether it be a quiver of the lip or a tremble of her pupil, her eyebrows furrowed as she calculated her words, as hard as it was.  
When agitated, she was as fierce as a lioness.  
This was unacceptable.  
“How _dare_ you.” She bellowed, as if speaking knives right into the hollow of his ribcage, a fire burning in her eyes.

She had the option of leaving and checking up on Arthur and the slight chance that his addiction would still manage to thrive, or tear apart her supervisor piece by piece until there were only small fragments of his personality left.  
In this case, Marianne chose the more… exciting option.

“You knew more about his medication than I did. In fact, you were the first person to suggest that his near death experience had anything to do with inebriation— if you had told me, it could have saved his life.” She spoke bitterly, tongue sharp. “You are an immature, frankly inconsiderate man. A coward. Instead of being out on the front lines like every man should, instead you’re here— somehow managing to mess up simple, logical tasks. You disgust me, Montclaire. On top of that you’re a lying, cheating, misogynistic little boy who believes everything should be handed to him because you’re supposedly the man in charge. I could do a better job than you in my sleep, and you’re my superior officer.”

He didn’t know exactly how to respond to that. Instead, he blinked, taking it in.

“I’m leaving to go check on my patient. _My_ patient. He’s not your drinking buddy anymore.”

Before she could slip out the door, his eyes narrowed, grabbing her roughly by the arm.  
“A woman like you needs to be put in her place.”

She yanked her arm from his grasp.  
“This is my place.”

And with that, she left.

———————————

Things felt incredibly surreal to Alice since the incident. Nothing quite felt right, as if walking in a dream. It was a hazy disassociation that followed her every step, like a shoe that didn’t fit. She didn’t exactly understand why she felt this way, as if a post-adrenaline crash, the depression after trauma like the fall of a leaf from a tree.  
One, Alice may or may not have slightly come out to her coworker who was simultaneously having an affair with her brother, knowing full well she was straight (or, at least she thought) and Alice was most definitely not.  
Two, she knew deep down she was probably going to get fired. However, for Marianne, she’d get fired a thousand times over if it meant keeping her sane.  
She’d take a bullet for her, whatever that means.

She continued on with her lunch per usual, as if it were her last, (not ever, but as a nurse), and contemplated other jobs. Sure, she could run a bakery— just… not bake. Perhaps she could find someone else to cook and then she could brand it as her own.  
Which was most highly unlikely.  
A girl could dream.  
Alice burned milk, once. _Milk_.

Maybe she could change her name, move to some desolate cottage in the Isle of Wight and become a sheep herder. Find a lovely wife named Tabitha who milks the cows every morning and reads her Shakespeare in the garden, her head resting upon her lap. No one else would know who they were except each other and no one else would matter.

She bit down on the brown part of the apple by accident and spat it out, putting her fantasy on pause.  
Food was scarce, which meant her usual lunch wasn’t pleasant— an overripe apple, barely seasoned cabbage soup and bread that resembled cardboard. That was a luxury: there were people that had no food at all whatsoever. She tried her hardest to be grateful.  
It was very, very difficult.

She calculated what she’d say in response.  
“I’m sorry.” Was her first choice.  
Too casual.  
“I accept the responsibility for my actions and I apologize for having been careless, and causing problems.”  
Too verbose.  
“Please protect Marianne.”  
Too… suspicious.  
God, was there ever a proper response to being fired? If anyone knew, she swore she needed to be appointed to them—

“Miss Kirkland?” A voice from behind the door called to her, a knock right afterwards. “I didn’t know you ate in here.”

Oh shit.

“Yes, I do. It’s quiet.” She spoke with an awkward tone to her voice, bashful. She knew she was getting fired, but this soon? “Come on in.”  
She felt as if she were inviting her own death.  
This was it, this was happening.  
Two years of hard work all shoved down the drain.  
She braced herself, taking in a deep breath.

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Mr. Montclaire, her supervisor had entered, clasping his hands.

She nodded in anticipation. “Go ahead.” With a curt smile, she stared at him while he collected his thoughts.

“Well, first off, I think it’s incredibly honorable of you to take the blame in the place of your friend.” He spoke politely.

Oh god, she didn’t.  
“Thank you?”

“Although I was planning on firing you today, I suppose my plans have been changed. Thank you for all of your work so far, it’s wonderful to have you around.”

Her head was spinning relentlessly, disbelief— did Marianne really just..?  
Was she… gone?

“I know you’re on your lunch break and all, but there’s a new case I want you take. This one might be… tougher than the rest.”

A promotion? Really?

“What’s the procedure?” Alice questioned, still in shock. Just minutes prior she was planning out her life in exile, now she was back to climbing the medical ladder. 

He exhaled deeply.  
“It’s very rare we house our enemies, however, there’s a Prussian in room 532 in need of assistance. You have every right to decline.”

It was uncommon for nurses to treat enemy soldiers due to animosity. It really showed true strength to see pass that.  
In order for Alice to rise up the ranks, this was the risk she had to take, as much as she absolutely was completely terrified.  
She smiled nonetheless.  
“Thank you. I will see to that.”

The man nodded, giving Alice a small salute in respect before exiting down the hall, leaving the Brit by herself once again.

God, what did she just sign up for.  
With a deep, bitter breath, she tossed the rest of her lunch before wandering down the corridor and up the stairs to room 532.  
This was her job, and she was going to do it, no matter what the circumstances may be.

\------------------------------------------ 

An object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. Marianne was certainly the object in motion, and the outside force was an unexpected stretcher-bearer having turned a corner as she dashed her way to room block 200, in search of Arthur.  
As hectic as the job may be, nurses aren’t permitted to run through the hallways. Or at least, they could, unless caught.  
Marianne made the mistake of assuming no one else was around, because she toppled over, bringing the stretcher down with her.  
At least it wasn’t the patient.

“ _Mon dieu_ , pardon--” She was lost in a sea of apologies, helping the nurse up that she had messily tackled in lieu of the fact that she wasn’t entirely paying attention. She was preoccupied with various different thoughts that plagued her mind, all of them pertaining to one stubborn Brit in particular. “Are you hurt?”

The woman appeared petrified, eyes widened in a state of confusion as if not understanding a word the Parisian said. She blinked profusely, crystalline blue eyes filling up with tears, before continuing to roll her patient along, more rush in her step.

This caught Marianne so off guard that all she did was stand there, watching her roll down the corridor and to the left.  
Why did this scare her so badly?

She put it aside when she remembered why she was running in the first place.  
Arthur Kirkland was alive.

In certain circumstances, adrenaline takes the place of winded breaths and body aches. When given enough momentum and proper reason Marianne was a racehorse, patience never having really been a strong suit, especially when it circled around the person she loved.  
She ran once again, this time making sure she was nowhere near any potential hazards and open corridors.

Room block 200 was a quiet block. Considering most of the patients were placed in either 100 for bacterial infections and 300 for tuberculosis, as previously mentioned, block 200 was primarily centered around amputees who managed to get past a couple weeks. Which, wasn’t entirely common.  
Hospitals weren’t sanitized enough. You get the gist.

Arthur was lucky. Perhaps it was because all the alcohol he drank was enough to kill off excess bacteria, or he just had a wonderful nurse.

As soon as she turned a corner into room 204, she practically charged herself at the door. She hadn’t seen him in two days, and having worried that she’d never see him again, she was desperate.  
She collected herself before opening it, peering into the dimly lit room only illuminated by the open window.  
He was sleeping. He was alive, but sleeping.  
In a way, that calmed her. She could see his chest rise and fall with every breath— so peaceful, his hair tousled across his forehead that was lightly damp with sweat. She hoped his dreams were just as peaceful as he appeared, so gentle, like how Madeline would sleep with the hint of a smile across her face as if letting her mom know she had sweet dreams.  
It was late afternoon here which meant morning in America. She’d most likely be sleeping in, curled up in her blanket as she would, comforter covering the top of her head as if wrapped into a cocoon. She wondered if she still did that or grew out of it, but she wouldn’t know.

She sauntered quietly over to sit at the chair beside him as if to get a closer look.  
His skin was still feverish, pale and ghostly. He must have sweat off five pounds, his cheekbones pointing out more than they used to, his prominent nose sharper in cartilage.  
The air in the room was humid, dense. He looked as if he were melting under all those sheets, his stump leg still kept leveled.  
She gazed at him from under her long eyelashes, a soft wistful smile forming as her rosy lips curled at the edges. She pushed away the slightly wet hair that partially covered his eyes from his face, off to the side.

At the recognition of her gentle touch his eyes fluttered open. They were groggy, hooded, but his lips followed suit with a trademark half-smirk, lopsided.

“Good afternoon.” She grinned.

There is no more pleasant feeling than escaping death, and staring back at your reason for life.  
“Is it really that late? Wow, I’m guessing near-death experiences really take that much out of you.” He spoke slyly, hand moving up towards her face to push away a stray hair behind her ear.  
“I’m glad you’re here, Marianne.”

She couldn’t explain it.  
Sometimes joy is so overpowering that your body confuses it with great sadness, and that’s exactly how Marianne felt.  
She couldn’t control her tears. They left wet markings on her face as they streamed from her eyes, just gazing at him brought everything together. Everything made sense.  
He was alive. He was _alive_.  
She had come so close to losing something so dear, the only good left in the world.  
“I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

“Don’t cry, love.” He frowned, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. If you had asked him a year ago, on the battlefield, where he saw himself in the future he wouldn’t have been able to respond. He would have gladly answered with, “staring up at the inside of a casket,” knowing nothing else but death. Asking him now, talking to a woman who his life depended on, he may even see a bright summer day in the city and jewelry stores.  
And for Arthur, as cynical and pessimistic as he was, this was incredibly rare.

She smiled nonetheless, breaking out into a bright grin that almost caught him off guard. “But you’re here, alive.” Her words choked up in her throat, as if refusing to come out. “You’re still as handsome as always. Thought I’d never see those eyes of yours.”

He never blushed. She brought that out of him.  
“You’re too kind,” he joked, mimicking a frail woman with a small wink, “Come here often?”

She caught herself rolling her eyes, pulling him into a hug that was both tight and tender, knowing full well he must have still been in pain, head resting in the crook of his neck. “You’re such an asshole.”

His healing arms wrapped around her, bringing her in tighter, pressing her against him. He missed this, their contact, when he’d sleep beside her all he’d want to do is just that (and obviously more, but besides the point), to hold her close. She smelled of fresh rain and cigarettes, lilies of the valley— serenity personified. She reminded him of London, where his heart resides, when the wet pavement mixed with the cool air and the waft of fresh cigars. As unpleasant as that sounds, it was home to him, other than the sweet smells of vanilla and lilac that she’d wear regardless. She resembled home. She _was_ home, where his heart was.  
He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to spell her name in the stars, tell her everything— but did he really want to take that risk? What if she rejected him?  
Sure, he regarded himself as attractive, it was no lie, but she was just… something. The only woman who he’d honestly say was out of his league. Beautiful inside and out in so many ways, a rarity. She was like finding a diamond in the desert.  
He could tell she was flirting with him sometimes, but it hit him in disbelief, how she still gave him the time of day. As egotistical as he was, he felt as if in no way did he deserve her attention.  
Testing the waters, he pressed a small kiss to the top of her head. “But you love me anyways.”

Her face was hot against his skin, nose pressing into his collarbone.  
His lips were soft. It baffled her how such a small action could turn her into such a ball of mush.  
She paused, pulling her face away from his neck to look back at him— holding her breath.  
“I do.”

Words failed him in that moment, in complete seriousness, attempting to wrap his head around it. She… loved him?  
Was she joking?

Her gaze was sincere, looking into both of his eyes. She refused to peer away.

“Marianne.” Was all he managed to say.

“Hm?”

He cupped her jaw in his hands, a redness to his face.  
“Kiss me.”

As a nurse, she wasn’t supposed to deny her patients anything, unless it damaged their health.  
There was no resistance. She couldn’t deny him.  
In a sudden moment, her lips were against his. Her lips were just as soft as he had imagined, which was something he’d been considering for quite some time.  
It lingered. It was cosmic, explosive— fiery passion. It all happened so fast, one moment her hands were against the nape of his neck to pull him closer, deepen the kiss, and the next moment he was lightly nipping the skin on her neck.  
Her head naturally tilted upwards, swallowing down hard.  
_Oh_ , oh god.

This was getting out of hand, but neither of them were complaining in any regard. Her hands were pressed against his chest, tugging at the fabric, earning a sigh of his in response.  
His lips were both rough and soft, she could feel them against her skin— inciting. He stopped at her ear, kissing behind it, hands running up and down her gown towards her hips.  
“I love you too.” He whispered in a low tone, nibbling softly at her earlobe.  
God, he’s been wanting to do this since he met her.

She felt herself grow hungry.  
She hadn’t felt this way since she was with her husband, but even then not to this extent.  
As much as he was a passionate romantic, she had never craved another person to this extent.  
She _needed_ him. Every moment that his lips weren’t on her, even if for a second, she’d go through withdrawal.

He pulled away to look in her eyes, his eyes pleading, out of breath— as if to ask for consent.

“Please.” She murmured.

That was all he needed.  
He kissed her hungrily, demandingly, biting down on her lower lip.  
Clearly he knew what he was doing.  
She was falling apart at the seams, unraveling, untying her tedious apron that was getting in the way, pulling the bun from her hair. In the meantime, his hands went back to unzip her dress, letting her shoulders go exposed.  
He couldn’t exactly move from his position, so Marianne improvised, sitting on his lap as if to straddle him.

As she pulled from the kiss, his smirk was very present, enjoying his current view.  
“You know, I may only have one leg, but you’re in luck: everything else still works.”

She held him by the collar. “Shut up.”

His words were cut off by the sheer power of her kiss, leaving her only in her undergarments, making Arthur submissive.  
Not for long.  
She rolled her hips, grinding up against him.

“Marianne, Jesus Christ—“

“Shhh,” she cooed, leaving small marks on his collarbone, “let me help you relax.”

 

————————————

 

Alice really had no idea what to expect. A Prussian? Those were rare. They were just more complicated Germans.  
And much, much more fierce.  
The Brit had much distaste for the Germans. For one, their language scared her quite some bit, also their threat of wiping every French and English soldier out didn’t help much— but she’d give them the benefit of the doubt.  
The man was hurt. She had to do her job.

Wheeling into room 532, all that she saw was a man hurled over his side, and abnormally white hair.  
Cut short, it framed his face, although done poorly. The ends were split and growing longer, which wasn’t entirely common.  
His face was slender, almost feminine— long eyelashes and rosy lips although matched with almost bleached pale skin.  
White, white skin.  
She had never seen a person so pale.

Their eyes darted over. Crimson rubies, red as blood. Alice’s whole body froze, and in that moment, averted her eyes towards the floor, trying to hide the fear that coursed through her veins. In keeping her composure she took in a deep breath, trying to appear calm and collected.

The man took on the usual German, or in this case Prussian, physical stereotype. Broad neck, strong arms.. Except, in this case, they definitely had some quirks.  
Instead of bulk, they were lean— as if almost deflated. This man definitely had a more feminine body type, broad hips, but as Alice could relate: flat chest.

“Are you going to help, or are you going to stare?”  
He said, breaking the silence.  
His voice was brash, higher pitch than normal, but still masculine. It sounded almost forced.

Alice snapped out of her trance before wheeling over, eyeing over any visible symptoms.  
In his Prussian Blue uniform, all blood would appear purple, and there were multiple spots of purple near his legs, and spots of blood where he sat. There were cuts up his arms, face and chest, but that wasn’t where the blood was coming from.

“Excuse me, sir,” Alice interjected, wary to anger them, “but what seems to be the problem?”

They became quiet, stoic, as if calculating his words. He gazed over at her in fear, unexpectedly, eyes trailing her up and down. Biting down on his lip, not out of arousal, but out of strife. The silence is what bothered her.

“...Sir?”

He appeared bashful. “Yes?”

Alice sat down on the bed, eyeing the blood that had now stained the sheets. No signs pointed to anything too abnormal, unless there was a gash-- “Where is the blood coming from?” 

He sat upright, clenching his jaw. He was avoiding something.  
But what?

“ _Sir_. I’m trying to help you.”

More silence. He turned to face her, eyes pleading, as if trusting her with something.  
Slowly, he pointed between his legs, pale skin flaring up into a bright red. There was still a tremble in his hands, as if ashamed, solemn.

Alice raised an eyebrow, beyond confused.

“There.” He said.

As she realized what this meant, it hit her like a train.  
Obviously, when Mr. Montclaire told her that this would be a difficult case, he wasn’t kidding.  
It was menstrual blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg thank you for reading ! i’ll try to update this as soon as i can, comments are very appreciated!


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